


Terra Incognita

by K_dAzrael



Series: Savages!verse [5]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Dirty Talk, Mental Health Issues, Military Academy, Multi, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Imperial St Trinians, Sexual Dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8617579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/pseuds/K_dAzrael
Summary: “Map Corps all went native or bugfuck crazy – everyone knows that. If they even existed, none of them ever came corewards again.”As the First Order continues the hunt for resources in the aftermath of Starkiller's destruction, General Hux is forced to call upon an old nemesis for help. Kylo learns more than he ever wanted to about Hux's shady past and the crisis of confidence that threatens to send them both spiraling towards disaster.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At this point I should probably list kylostahp as a co-author, since so much of this story is thanks to her. First of all, the [Imperial Mapping Corps meta](http://kylostahp.tumblr.com/post/140650384807/kdazrael-kylostahp-kdazrael-kylostahp) grabbed hold of my brain, and then also she drew [Storno](http://kdazrael.tumblr.com/post/153224327852/kylostahp-kdazrael-kylostahp) and OH NO HE'S A CUTIE. She also helped me out of a Creativity Fail by coming up with the term 'cogger' (from _terra incognita_ ) - CHEERS M8!

**34 ABY**

Mitaka is sweating more than usual. He cringes in front of Kylo, clasping his cap in white-knuckled hands and turning it around and around as if shaping a pie crust. “He wouldn’t receive our delegation, sir.” He gulps and turns his face towards Hux. “Ss… sirs.”

“That’s absurd,” Hux remarks from his position behind the desk. “Why should he allow them to land only to refuse to enter into negotiations?”

“He’s toying with us,” Kylo says, turning with a twirl of his heavy robes.

“He says—” Mitaka continues, but Kylo cuts across him.

“—I’ll go down and teach him what it means to challenge the First Order.” Kylo clenches his fist, the leather of his glove creaking.

Hux raises a staying hand and Kylo scowls beneath his mask at the arrogance of the gesture. “Go on, Lieutenant – what does he say?”

“He demands to speak to the general personally. He says he will negotiate with no-one else.”

“Out of the question,” Hux snaps, rising to his feet. “I’m not sharing an atmosphere with that jumped-up little shit.”

“Is that your return message, sir?”

“Yes. No!” Hux sighs and massages the bridge of his nose, looking put-upon. “I need to think. Mitaka you’re dismissed. Hold off on a return message.”

Mitaka clicks his heels and places his now deformed hat back on his head, then turns and makes his exit, leaving Kylo and Hux alone in the latter’s office. Kylo turns and says accusingly: “You told me this man was an ally.”

Hux’s ears have pinked noticeably. “I most certainly did not! I said he might be amenable to working with us, for the right price.”

Behind the mask, Kylo narrows his eyes and tries to get a read on Hux’s uppermost thoughts, but they are too fast-paced and agitated for him to glean much information. “How exactly do you know this person?”

“I went to school with him. Briefly.”

“Then he must be sympathetic to the cause. Unless... he’s not one of those poor bastards you tortured, is he – you and your pack of wolves?”

“I’ve never tortured anyone. Not personally. And no, Looker Storno is no-one’s victim: he’s a very cunning and dangerous man.”

“So you think it’s a trap that he wants you to go down and speak to him? You think he means you harm?”

Hux makes a frustrated noise. “Not a trap, exactly. He will most certainly have his own agenda – or, more likely, several.”

“Do you know what his agendas are?”

Hux looks away, a flicker of annoyance and perhaps shame crossing his face. “Not precisely, no. He’s… unpredictable.”

Kylo sighs, static hissing from his mask. “I’ll go down and kill him.”

“What good would that do? We need his information as much as his assets.”

“I’ll break his mind.”

Hux raises his chin, looking smug and unassailable again. “You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

“Do _you_?”

Hux sniffs, clasping his hands behind his back. “I have some leads.”

“Like what?”

“Never mind that. Now feel free to be off about your duties, Ren.”

“The Supreme Leader made it clear that I was to make it my priority to assist you in this project.”

Hux lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Yes he did, didn’t he? And yet that you should choose today of all days to start finally following that order is _remarkable_. Where was this team spirit when we were on that bloody endless tour of the Core?”

“I helped. I stopped that rodian from assassinating you on Ganthel.”

“I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I? You’ll be dining out on ‘I saved you from the assassin’ for years.”

“If you’re going down to that planet you’ll need a bodyguard.”

“I’m not going down to that planet. Besides, if I were to go I could easily arrange an escort of troopers.”

“No. Troopers can’t read an enemy’s intentions and know where traps or concealed threats are.”

“I do find it irksome when you’re clingy. Now, I have to make some very important communications so go away and we’ll regroup later.”

“No.” Ren lowers himself into a chair, stretching out his legs and crossing his feet at the ankles to make it clear that he has no intention of leaving. “I have a right to be a party to all information pertaining to this mission.”

“Ren!” Hux puts his gloved fingertips to the space between his eyes and rubs in a soothing motion. “Well,” he sighs, “there’s no use trying to reason with you — I see you’ve dug your heels in like the stubborn happabore you are.” He leans over his desk and taps the console, bringing up the comm function and starting to enter the security codes. “I warn you — If you interrupt me there will be grave consequences.”

Ren folds his arms, smirking to himself behind the mask. “Like what?”

Hux glances up sharply, blue-white light and columns of backwards numbers scrolling across his face. “Don’t force me to get creative, Ren.”

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

Hux throws himself over the side of the bunk and lands squarely inside his unfastened boots. He gropes for his jacket on the hook on the wall, squeezing his eyes closed against the strobing emergency lights as the dull honking of the alarm reverberates around the inside of his skull.

It is only as they shuffle into the bitter cold of the night air beyond the retracted security doors that Hux comes to full consciousness, shivering as the wind whips against his thighs, which are poorly protected by the thin sleeping pants.

As he stands shoulder to shoulder with his dorm-mates, Hux watches as Yungkai buries his face in his hands and groans pitifully. Trulaw yawns and leans his head against Saff’s shoulder. They all snap to attention as Commandant Prell walks up and down the orderly rows, checking off each cadet against the list on his datapad.

“Better,” he says curtly. “But if this was a real Class III conflagration you would all be dead.”

“If only,” Trulaw mutters.

“Given recent events,” the commandant continues, “I would have thought you’d all show a bit more urgency.” The cadets are stony-faced, their eyes unfocused in an expression that is neither agreement nor challenge.

In the distance, Hux can see a white light moving in the night sky. It streaks out, long-tailed, so at first Hux takes it for a comet. Then it begins to flash, hovering in the dusty air, and he realises it is a shuttle. He nudges Knight with a sharp elbow and gestures with a significant roll of his eyes.  “What is that?” he whispers.

Knight blinks, squinting his eyes against the dust. “Resupply?”

“That’s not in the schedule.”

Knight shrugs, unconcerned. Hux continues to stare; a flash of something – intuition, perhaps – making him wonder.

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

“Listen,” the hologram of Trulaw says, “I’m very flattered you still think me capable of setting a honey trap after all these years but Storno never liked me.”  He is sitting up in what must be his bed and squinting against the light generated by the corresponding hologram of Hux hovering above the hand-held communicator.

“Yes he did,” Hux snaps. “You have a terrible memory.”

“It was Berkal he liked.”

“He didn’t like Berkal – don’t be absurd.”

“I don’t mean _sexually_ – who even knows with Storno? I suppose we were all animals in a zoo to him – he just liked to come along and rattle the cage.”

“Didn’t you have an affair with Storno’s cousin? Roy... Rav... something?”

“Rove. Turns out that wasn’t his cousin.”

“Who was he then?”

“Stars above, who knows? Coggers all look alike to me with their vitamin deficiencies and bad haircuts. Anyway, the little bastard made off with my favourite scarf. It was green and yellow — didn’t do a thing for his sallow complexion.”

Hux tilts his head back and lets out a long sigh. “Trulaw, for once in your selfish life can’t you think of some _useful_ information?”

“Hux, it seems like what you want is some kind of magic word or phrase that will make Storno roll over and play nice with you. There’s no such information in the entire galaxy. If you’re going to have dealings with him you have to be prepared to buckle in. He’ll have some diverting little interlude written out for you to play a part in, so you might as well be a sport about it.”

“What kind of _interlude_?”

“No idea, old boy.” Trulaw sighs and rubs one eye. “I haven’t talked to Storno in months.”

“ _Months_?”

“I told you we weren’t close.”

“No, I mean what business do you have talking to him at all? He’s a fugitive from at least ten star systems.”

“Oh yes, and we none of us have ever done anything off the books.”

Another voice, off-camera, interrupts the conversation: “Turn that off.”

Trulaw turns his head, stifling a yawn. “Just a minute, darling. The general has some kind of dilemma.”

Hux  stands bolt upright, a hand disordering his glossy hair. “There’s someone listening in to this conversation?”

“Oh calm down — it’s only Cord. He has plenty of security clearance in your wretched organization.”

“Why the hell are you sleeping with Cord?”

“Believe me, I’ve been asking myself that question all week.”

Kylo hears a low chuckle and a large, dark-skinned hand curls around Trulaw’s bare shoulder, a fingertip tracing the groove of his collarbone. “ _You know why_.” Trulaw turns his head to give the person off-camera a dazzling smile.

“Doesn’t Major Cord have a job to do?” Hux demands, a tuft of hair sticking up on the top of his head like the crest of an exotic bird. Kylo longs to smooth it down.

Cord’s voice, muffled: “I have leave.”

“Anyway,” Trulaw continues brightly, “so how are you — apart from the Storno thing? How’s Kylo? When am I getting my invitation to the wedding?”

“This is not a social call, Trulaw. If you don’t have any useful information I’m going to cut this short.”

Trulaw rolls his large, mournful eyes. “Oh yes, it’s oh-three-hundred here in Coronet City but I’m the one wasting _your_ time. A delight as always, Hux.”

Hux shuts off the transmission. He finally flattens down his hair and glances over at Kylo, a sullen expression on his face. “I suppose you found that highly entertaining.”

“I didn’t know we were getting married." Kylo tilts his head to one side. "Were you planning on telling me about it?”

Hux twists his lip in an expression of disdain. “I’m not in the mood for your stunted attempts at humour, Ren.”

“You’re going down to that planet,” he says, not a question — just a statement of what Hux is thinking as his stomach tightens with apprehension. “I’m going with you,” Kylo adds, a grim resolution of his own.  

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

Hux looks up from his work as he hears a commotion near the door – Knight is striding down the central aisle of the study hall, followed closely by Cord. A younger cadet finds himself shoved aside; ricocheting off the door frame and careening into a group of his peers when he makes the mistake of getting in Cord’s inexorable way. They are followed at a distance by Trulaw, who saunters in with his hands in his pockets, affecting a sort of drowsy disinterest in the proceedings.

A sharp hipbone digs into Hux’s side as Knight slides along the hard surface of the durasteel bench next to him. The second-year cadets working at the next table over immediately snap closed their datapad covers, taking off like a flock of startled birds. Cord sits backwards on the vacant bench and Trulaw hops up to sit on the table, his knee pressed against Cord’s right shoulder.

“So he’s called Looker Storno—” Knight begins.

“But he’s _not_ , regretfully,” Trulaw breaks in. “A looker, that is.”

“What the hell kind of name is that?” Hux demands, frowning.

Knight shrugs. “He’s Map Corps.”

“Map Corps all went native or bugfuck crazy – everyone knows that.” Hux glares at Knight and Trulaw in turn, as if daring them to contradict him with the fact of this inexplicable human being. “If they even existed, none of them ever came corewards again.”

“I’m just telling you what they’re saying,” Knight persists.

“If you ask me,” Hux says haughtily, “this idiot – whoever he is – took an opportunity to invent himself a glamorous backstory. He’s probably just some son of a lowly engineer.”

Knight’s shoulder twitches against his and Hux slides away in distaste, breaking the contact. “Does he look like a cogger?”

Trulaw throws his hands up. “What does a cogger look like, pray tell? He’s got a disgusting rat’s nest of hair and a gold tooth,” he taps his left incisor.

“Stars,” says Hux, sitting back with a sigh. “This place really is going to the dogs.”

“And he’s fat,” Cord adds.

“Fat?” Hux looks at Cord as if he has told him that the newcomer has three eyes or a vestigial tail. Trulaw nods and raises an enigmatic eyebrow.

“What—” Hux begins, before a murmur from the upper part of the room distracts him. Berkal is standing in the doorway, holding up traffic. A group of younger students have surrounded him, watching him with growing uncertainty and impatience; some clearly wanting to push past him, but not courageous enough to be the first to do so. Berkal has his toes to the line where the dark grey flooring of the hallway ends and the lighter tiles of the study hall begin. He is staring down at his feet, his fingers twitching faintly around the edges of his datapad and lips moving.

“He’s doing it again,” Knight says. “Should we go and get him?”

“No,” Hux sighs with exasperation, “if you interrupt him he’ll just have to start all over again. Leave him. Where are Saff and Yungkai?”

“Remedial Basic,” Trulaw replies.

Hux makes a sucking sound between his teeth. “How did that happen? Trulaw, I thought you were doing their homework.”

“I was!” Trulaw protests. “Folohn moved me so they couldn’t copy my work in class.”

“Unacceptable – I need them for recon. Who knows what Folohn wants?”

“A fucking smack in the face,” Cord says, unhelpfully.

“Berkal?” Hux demands when Est finally drifts over. Berkal remains standing, frowning as he taps something into his datapad, then looks up at Hux with his vague, wandering eyes.

“Yes?”

“What do you know about Folohn – he likes you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He lent me some datacards – novels, you know?”

“What’s his deal, is he a pervert?”

“I don’t think so. He’s never tried to touch me.”

“Does he drink?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“What do you talk about with him?”

“Books. Fantasy, you know – imaginary worlds and timelines and stuff. Sometimes he asks me about my brother. He had a wife that died.”

“Alright,” Hux nods, files this information away. “Can you get him to lay off Yungkai and Saff? Tell him you’re tutoring them. That it’s helping with your grief or something.”

“Ok,” Berkal agrees.

“What do you want us to do about the new guy?” asks Knight.

“Nothing, for now. What dorm is he in?”

“Five.”

“Good. Trulaw are you still fucking Treadaway?”

Trulaw makes a face. “Please, I was never fucking him. He wishes.”

“Well keep him sweet, somehow. Make sure he wants to confide in us.” Hux consults his wrist-chrono. “Let’s cut this short – I have to go and meet Wivenhoe.”

Trulaw rolls his eyes. “Why are you still wasting your time with that ghastly scarecrow?”

Cord laughs, chewing idly at a thumbnail. “He does look like a scarecrow.”

“He’s a damn sight better than Riggs,” Knight remarks, leaping to Hux’s defence unasked.

Trulaw snorts. “So’s my left arse-cheek.”

Hux gives him a cold, reproachful look. “He might be useful. Don’t get yourself – or me – on the wrong side of him. I mean it Trulaw – I won’t tell you again.”

“I’m only saying, old boy – he’s not quite the thing.”

Knight wrinkles his brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s a sketchy motherfucker,” Cord translates.

“I didn’t say that,” Trulaw objects. “But I know his type.”

“Oh frakk off back to the Core, Trulaw. You don’t know anything about the real Imperials.” Hux stands up, tucking his datapad under his arm. “I’ll see you all at dinner.”

“Well don’t be late,” Trulaw calls after him. “It’s flavourless nutriloaf night.”

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

Kylo takes his seat next to Hux in the transporter, glancing back at where the stormtroopers sit like congregants in their orderly, silent rows. Hux is jabbing angrily at his datapad, distracting himself from his growing sense of unease by micromanaging an overhaul of the missile emplacements. His eyebrows are drawn down and his mouth tightens at the sound of the bay doors clanging shut and the whir as the shuttle begins to lift. Kylo can feel his desire for a cigarra — a keen, almost painful longing. Hux quit smoking upon their return to the Finalizer and it has made him even more snappish and irritable than usual.

Kylo stares at the strip of pale skin between Hux’s collar and his jaw. He thinks about waking up next to him and kissing that spot, rubbing the tip of his nose against the short hair at the base of his skull and trailing it into the hollow just above the nape of Hux’s neck. It still amazes Kylo to think on these moments of stolen tenderness. Doubly stolen, in fact: for it is time taken from his training (a diversion he can ill afford, given his many failures) and the emotions themselves are wrested unwillingly from Hux (who Kylo believes cares for him, but only within the very narrow bounds of his leisure and patience).

Sometimes Kylo finds Hux’s lack of receptiveness frustrating, as if Hux is a rock he’s throwing himself against, uselessly, again and again, mangling himself in the process. Other times, Kylo is filled with a sense of the finality of their connection: Hux is Kylo’s lover, and the only one he will ever have. They will rise or fall together, their fates inextricably linked.

The transport rocks and vibrates as it enters the planet’s atmosphere. The last time Kylo was in a vessel of this type he was delirious, bleeding out from his wounds. He had been lying on his back in the snow in a state of utter abjection as the planet shook itself to pieces around him. He looked up to see Hux standing at a vertiginous angle above him, the orange of his hair the only spot of colour in the entire galaxy, it seemed. Cold, cold fingers against Kylo’s pulsepoint and barked orders blaring against his eardrum.

Starkiller. Before they were lovers — before they were anything but thorns in one another’s sides. Kylo remembers Hux holding him down as the transport pitched crazily as it tried to pull away from the crumbling ground. The rank fear-sweat on him seeping out even through his thick overcoat and Kylo thinking, distractedly, _so he’s human after all_.

He remembers Hux’s voice, tight and slightly hysterical but still with that mordant edge: “Oh stop that howling, Ren. Anyone would think you’ve never seen your life’s work in ruins before.”

Kylo had been past shame or any thought of the future. He sobbed out: “there’s nothing left. Nothing left. Useless, the girl—” then Hux slapped him right across the ruined portion of his face — a bright, blooming agony that momentarily eclipsed all the other myriad pains.

Hux had brought his face down close to Kylo’s, so close that Kylo could feel the hot swirl of breath against his cracked, frozen lips. “You know nothing about _loss_.”

Time passed — months of healing, and then training: ordeal after ordeal, never knowing if he was passing or failing and aware only of a creeping numbness that seemed more profound than what could be caused by hard, knotty scar tissue and sheared-through facial nerves. When Kylo returned to the Finalizer he had felt utterly disconnected from his surroundings, from his own body, even. He presented himself at Hux’s office and found his old rival standing with the same crisp uniform and precisely combed hair as before. Yet when Kylo looked into Hux’s eyes he found something new: a look of fear and resignation where there had once only been cool self-confidence.

“Well,” Hux had said — slowly, a little warily, “here we are again.”

“Surviving,” Kylo said. Hux looked surprised — he was expecting something cutting and dismissive, Kylo thought, suddenly ashamed of all the pettiness and arrogance that had marked their previous interactions. Kylo took of his helmet and showed Hux his raw, scar-puckered face; wanting to see it reflected back to him by another human, and not an unfeeling mirror. Hux, he felt sure, would tell him what had become of him.  

Hux stared at him for a long moment and Kylo stood still, feeling his chin trembling faintly. Hux took off his left glove and reached out, easing his thumb into the groove of Kylo’s scar and following its course over the bridge of his nose and down to his cheek. “I thought we put bacta on this.”

Kylo had gone rigid beneath the intimate, evaluating touch. “He made me take it off.”

“Ah. He wants you marked by your failures.” Hux blinked, seeming to come back to himself, and began to pull his hand away.

Kylo balanced his helmet against one hip and grasped Hux’s wrist with his free hand. “Don’t stop,” he said. “Please, look at me.”

“What are we doing?” Hux asked, glancing up at him with an expression of sudden horror — because he already knew.

Kylo felt their connection — Hux’s answering sympathy — with the same certainty as he felt intuitions revealed to him by the Force: _that is a lie, she envies you, he is afraid of you_. The shift of a moment, and Kylo knew: _he is your lover_.

Kylo forces himself to look away from Hux’s tense face in profile, but he can’t stop dwelling on intimate memories. Earlier today they had sex in the shower: long, seamless kisses as the water pattered against the back of Kylo’s skull (Hux likes the extravagance of water now, though he still won’t admit it). Their cocks grazed each other’s stomachs and they rubbed and tugged at each other with slow-building urgency. Just before he came, Hux pulled back, a wet smack as their lips pulled apart, and he looked up at Kylo with that same bewildered expression he had worn the first time he saw Kylo’s scarred and weary face. _Here we are again. What are we doing?_

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

“Dear boy,” Captain Wivenhoe calls when Hux sticks his head through the doorway. “Come in, come in.”  

Hux salutes neatly and steps inside. Wivenhoe’s personal quarters are far from luxurious – four metres by six; a rattly air conditioner that doesn’t manage to keep the temperature much into the double digits – but he has feathered the nest somewhat. There is a bar heater and a caf can for boiling water. He has a kybuckskin rug on the floor to absorb some of the chill from the duracrete floor and a few mismatched chairs gathered around a low, rectangular table, the bed set off along the right-hand wall behind a screen.

“Caf, Hux?” Wivenhoe asks, his back turned as he potters about, leaning over the hotplate.

“No thank-you, sir.”

“Still not acquired the taste for it? Well, I supposed you haven’t yet learned what it is to be truly sleep deprived. Do sit down.”

Hux takes his usual seat on the second-most comfortable chair, which has some cushioning and only one wobbly leg. On the table before him sits a small plate of plain, round biscuits and a few datacards, fanned out.

Captain Euric Wivenhoe is Riggs’ replacement and a marked improvement if only in that he is neither an idiot nor a sadist. He is in his forties but age shows only around his eyes, marked by crow’s feet. He has cadaverously pale skin and his hair retains such a uniform darkness that the cadets gossip that he must dye it. He wears his sideburns long, in the old Imperial style, and has a prominent hooked nose. He is tall and so thin that it makes his head and hands look disproportionately large; his movements tottering and a little ungainly, though his ice-blue eyes suggest a nature that is rather calculating and decisive.

“Well,” he says, seating himself and placing his cup of caf on the table, stretching out his long legs, “that was a devil of an awakening last night, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The commandant clearly has some safety concerns in the wake of last year’s tragedy.”

Hux keeps his expression neutral: this is a game, or a test, he knows. A lesser mind would take the bait, rising to the opportunity of petty gossip; perhaps would even be lured into catching the thread of treacherous disapproval that Wivenhoe’s remark seems to offer. “The drilling probably does us good, sir. Preparation, as you say, for the times to come when sleep will be a luxury.”

Wivenhoe smiles, his gaze remaining cold and steady. “You have a way with words, Hux. A readiness of wit that’s truly remarkable in one so young. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised – I’m sure you get it from your father.”

Hux feels his ears burn. “He did stress the importance of oratory.”

Wivenhoe crosses one long, bony leg over the other, linking his fingers together on his lap. “Did I tell you that I heard him speak once – your father, that is?”

Hux shakes his head.

“Ah. I was at Raithal, not Arkanis, but Commandant Hux visited Lothal once when I was coming up. We had to spruce up for the guest – dress whites and ceremonial sabres. I was too young and callow to fully appreciate his speech, but parts of it struck me deeply.” Wivenhoe lifts the plate of biscuits and offers it to Hux, who shakes his head, though he can feel his empty stomach churning discontentedly.

Wivenhoe sets the plate on the table and takes one for himself, holding the thin disk between his overlong fingers. “I remember that he said that to live well, one must speak well. ‘For what use are a man’s deeds if he cannot say why he did them?’” Wivenhoe snaps the biscuit in half and gazes at the sundered edges, his eyes going unfocused with the act of recollection. “He said that we must think of the soldiers we would become not as a far-off destiny, but as a work we were crafting, day by day, a little at a time. To make a start by thinking of how we spoke — to speak with the voices of those future men and women.” He blinked and looked up at Hux. “I can’t recall his _exact_ words, ironically enough, but it went something like that. I remember that it sounded utterly magical to me: to speak oneself into being. Like some kind of ancient myth.”

Hux swallows past a feeling of burning in his throat, wishing he had accepted a cup of caf if only to have something to do to cover up the momentary lapse in decorum. Wivenhoe bites into the biscuit and regards him thoughtfully as he chews.

“My father has very definite ideas about personal development,” Hux says, as neutrally as he can.

Wivenhoe swallows his mouthful. “Forgive me! Prattling on about your father like that is damn insensitive of me. It must be very difficult for you to be apart from him. Do you hear from him often – where is he stationed these days?”

“Classified, sir.”

“Ah, of course.” Wivenhoe raises his eyebrows sagely. “He is one of our hidden architects of the new age to come. It must be a bitter regret to him that he couldn’t keep you with him.”

After an awkward pause, Hux nods towards the datacards on the table. “What are those?”

“Oh! Just some pictures of some vessels of the old fleet; a few where I was stationed. The _Accuser_ had some very interesting engineering features — retrofitted proton torpedo launchers and such — it was one of the last of the Imperial I-types, you know. Young Kallic should be along in a minute — he expressed an interest in seeing them.”

Hux glances at the door and takes his opportunity. “Did you hear about the new boy?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Not on my roster — why?”

“I’ve heard that he’s Mapping Corps.”

“Well, what if he is?”

“They’re little more than pirates, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“I can’t imagine pirates wanting to send their children to an NEC academy. If the boy is here then he must have been vetted.”

“Did you ever go to one of the outposts, sir, in the Unknown Regions?”

Wivenhoe’s eyes rest on him for a long moment. “No, I was never in the outer _outer_ darkness, so to speak. The first wave of exiles went looking for the colonies, but most of them hadn’t survived; those that did were only just clinging on.”

“I heard a lot of them assimilated.”

“Well,” Wivenhoe dusts off his hands, “who knows what a man might be driven to do under those circumstances?”

 _Not commit treason_ , Hux almost says, but at the last moment he holds back the remark — too passionate, too revealing.  The arrival of Kallic saves him from a response. The subject is dropped and conversation turns safely to history and old glories.

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

They land on an arid planet. Sandy, stony ground crunches underfoot when they step off the ramp and Hux turns and raises his hand to the troopers descending behind them. He commands their red-pauldroned leader to stay, have the men remain alert and keep scanning the area for incoming threats.

Night is falling on this portion of the landmass and the sky is a vivid star-spangled indigo, tinging into pink at the fading horizon. There are no clouds and the exposure is breath-stopping. As covered as he is Kylo can feel the cold biting at all the seams of his garments. Hux’s breath spirals in the air as he stands and surveys the flat, desolate landscape. It is not an ordinary desert, that much is clear: there appears to be no wildlife or living fauna. Twisted, grey structures that might once have been trees or succulents dot the ground here and there, but they are ash-grey; petrified. There are no sounds — no scuttling or chirping or the susurration of insects. There is not even any wind. In the middle-distance a mesa rises up from the ground, its sheer face cratered with indentations that look like small caves, some of which are hung with lights.

“Let’s get this over with,” Hux mutters to Kylo, striding off towards this one and only sign of life with a grim look on his face.

When they get close enough to the mesa they can see it is swarming with beings that clamber about the structure with ant-like energy and purpose. Before the sheer cliff face they find a heap of bleached, discarded bones and scraps of tattered cloth. Hux rolls a skull underfoot and leans down to examine it. Kylo can see at a glance that it is not human: it is small, elongated, and lacking a nasal cavity.

A watch cry goes up at their approach and figures begin to emerge from the holes in the rock, rappelling down ropes to hit the ground and scramble over the litter of bones. There are some humans and a selection of other species — Kylo spots a selonian, a barabel, and one or two lifeforms that he does not recognise, including a tall, bipedal, androgynous being with green-yellow scales and black eyes with several sets of eyelids that blink in a complicated pattern. At the vanguard of the party is a short, stocky human man with unruly black hair and a thick mustache that curves along his jaw to meet his sideburns. He is dressed in a grubby blue flight suit and a boxy tunic made of some waterproof and reflective material, cinched in below the curve of his stomach with a richly embroidered belt that complements a pair of hide, fur-lined boots. There are several heavy ropes of beads and gemstones slung around his neck. The overall look is that of a warlord who also moonlights as a plumber.

“Armitage Hux!” the man calls out, spreading his arms wide.

“Looker Storno,” Hux returns, with markedly less enthusiasm. Their expressions could not be more different: Storno is grinning and looks absolutely exhilarated, Hux is tight-lipped with disgust.

“Well, well, well,” Storno says, hands on his hips as he stands and takes Hux in. “Look at you. Must have taken quite some scrambling to get those stripes.”

“Look at _you_ ,” Hux retorts. “I knew you were unprincipled, but grave robbing, really?”

“What, this?” Storno lifts a large necklace strung with what look to be sacred amulets, “I just got bored waiting for you to show up.”

“And _you_ , Treadaway,” Hux says, addressing a man with a prosthetic arm made of some kind of black metal scaffolding and exposed wiring who stands to Storno’s left, “I can’t believe you’re running around with him again. Didn’t you learn your lesson after last time?”

“You’re not the boss of me, Hux,” the man returns sullenly. “You never were.”

Storno laughs. “Now, now boys, play nice. Who’s your friend, Hux?”

“This is Kylo, master of the Knights of Ren.”

“Ren. I’ve heard of them — Force-users. That’s not very friendly Hux, where is the trust?”

“It was either him or a battalion of stormtroopers. Take your pick.”

Storno’s smile shows a gold tooth that glints in the lamp light. “Might get kind of cramped. Come on, I’ll show you where we’re set up.”

“Very well,” Hux’s voice is clipped, his brusqueness masking his discomfort. “But let’s not draw this out unnecessarily.”

Storno just grins wider. “You came to _me_ , Hux. Let’s not forget that.”

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

Hux wakes in the middle of the night, startled from a deep sleep as if by one of the emergency sirens. The room is silent except for the soft snores of his dorm-mates and the _whick-whick_ of the air circulator. Hux lies awake for a long moment trying to dismiss the sense that a something out of the ordinary woke him. Restless and unable to fall back to sleep, he throws back the covers and jumps soundlessly to the floor, landing in his boots.

The others are asleep, wrapped tightly in cocoons of blankets. Hux stands still and listens again. Then there comes a voice — soft, uninflected — from the far end of the room: “there’s a door open,” Berkal says. He is on the bottom bunk: the bed that used to be Eli’s, now occupied by Est, as if he’s keeping it warm for his brother.

“What?” Hux murmurs back.

“A door. I can hear the draught. And earlier there were some footsteps going past.” Berkal is curled up tight with his knees to his chest and his arms wrapped around his lower legs. The position can’t be comfortable.

“I’m going to see what’s going on,” Hux says. He thinks about waking Knight, who he knows would follow him without question or complaint, but he dislikes the idea that others perceive Knight as his shadow or bodyguard. Hux is his own man. He shrugs on his jacket and laces up his boots, then sets the door on manual so he can open it just a fraction and slide out through the gap.

The corridors look eerie in the low bluish glow of the standby lighting. Hux stands and cocks his head to listen. He can hear a low, hollow sound that he realises after a few moments is the wind and Berkal is right — there is a distinct draught. He moves towards the emergency stairwell and finds the heavy fire door propped open with a boot. He moves stealthily up the stairs to the rooftop exit, where he locates a second boot holding wide the exit door. Someone who knows the layout but not how to override the security codes — interesting.

Hux peers around the door and catches sight of someone sitting on the air conditioning unit. The two moons are bright in the cloudless sky and Hux can make out the figure clearly: a youth wearing the drab jacket of a cadet, but underneath it a grey flight suit such as a long-haul freighter pilot might wear. He is short and has a prominent stomach and chubby thighs — Hux thinks perhaps there was no uniform in stock to fit these dimensions, and the flight suit must be a stop-gap solution. The youth has medium-brown skin and thick, black hair that curls in many directions and looks like it was cut during a struggle. He has a heavy brow, a snub nose and a square jawline, these strong features vying for space on his otherwise round and boyish face. A small, circular device sits on one of his knees, projecting a grid pattern up onto the sky above his head. He has a datapad and a stylus and seems to be making notes.

“You must be Storno,” Hux says, stepping out onto the rooftop.

The youth looks up and blinks at Hux for a moment, then his mouth stretches into a grin. “And you must be Hux. Am I wrong?” His accent is strange: not Core, not Exile, not even Rimmer; his vowels almost aspirated: he pronounces Hux’s name ‘hooks’. It’s enough to make Hux wonder if Galactic Basic is his first language.

“My reputation precedes me, I see.” Hux tries not to sound gratified by this, though he is.

“People round here think you’re a badass,” Storno remarks, putting away his stylus and bobbing a socked foot. His feet are small and dainty, like a woman’s. “Or a fucking psycho. Depends who you ask.”

“Do you always open with an insult? I thought you coggers were trained in diplomacy.”

“‘Cogger!’” Storno tilts his head back and laughs. “That’s a good one.”

“That’s what you claim you are, isn’t it?”

“That’s the story alright. It might even be true.”

“So why are you here?” Hux asks. “Did the arsehole of the galaxy shit you back out?”

Storno sucks air through his teeth, as if Hux has slapped him, then he smiles, as if he enjoyed it. “Mmm. Here I thought the Rim would be boring.”

“If you’re hoping for entertainment you’re welcome to go elsewhere. Some of us are here to learn.”

Storno looks about at the desolate surroundings. “What can you learn in a place like this? How to be a rat, gnawing other rats?”

“How to rise,” Hux says, surprising himself with his anger and conviction. “How to succeed where others fail.”

Storno’s eyes light up with glee. “Hux. Are we going to be friends? I would like to be your friend, I think.”

“I don’t have friends, only interests.” Hux folds his arms and looks Storno up and down. “What I see before me is not very interesting.”

Storno shuts off his grid projector and sticks it into his pocket, then tucks his datapad under his arm and jumps to his feet. He looks up at Hux from beneath his thick, straight brows, his black eyes shiny and knowing. “Well, that is how you want it. Nothing I can do about that.”

Hux raises his chin. “Stay off this roof, Storno. It’s out of bounds.”

“I’m not good with boundaries,” he replies. “But I am here to learn.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I know it's been a billion years since I updated this fic, but I can explain! You see, I was busy with very serious work... *hundreds of Kylux Hard Kinks prompts fall out of my pockets and spill onto the floor* No, don't look at those!

**34 ABY**

Storno before them, the rest of his group following behind, Kylo and Hux are led through a series of ground-level passages hollowed out of the soft sandstone of the mesa. The beings that made these passages were smaller than the average human, so both Hux and Kylo have to stoop to make their way through, Kylo angling his shoulders in the narrower places to slide through. The stone is deeply pockmarked and into some of the shallow holes have been fixed rods containing some phosphorescent chemical that glows softly in shades of pink, blue and green, lighting up the labyrinth like a landing strip.

Kylo feels some kind of vague foreboding, but he cannot tell if this is information he is getting independently from the Force, or that Hux’s unease is infectious. Hux is staring at the back of Storno’s scruffy head as if he thinks that he can make plasma bolts dart from his own eyes if he just concentrates with enough malevolent will.

After some twists and turns they emerge into a higher-ceilinged and more spacious cavern. The space is lit with more of the illuminating rods and most of the floor space is taken up by two rows of crates pushed together to make one long rectangle. At the far end of the chamber is a dais carved from the sedimentary rock, upon which sits a throned figure. It is another corpse, though in a better state of preservation than the others they have seen: skin of a dark greenish-brown is stretched over a gently convex skull; the body draped in a long mantle of a fabric that was made of some woven plant material, stained a deep ochre red and decorated with tiny versions of the carved beads that adorn Storno’s pilfered necklaces.

The being has six arms and in death they have been carefully arranged and fixed in a graceful curve across the lower abdomen. When Kylo steps closer he can see the light of the nearest glow rod shining through the papery dome of the creature’s abdomen and there inside the cavity, a heap of what look like stones. Overcome with curiosity and a pull that seems to come from outside of himself, Kylo takes off a glove and touches the hem of the being’s mantle. Strange images lance his mind like needles: the submersed _thud, thud_ of a heartbeat and a slow building of some bone-white barrier. They are her heirs, immature and unborn. The conditions of the dying world would not allow her to bring them forth and so they stayed within her, hidden and protected, slowly ossifying.

“So,” Storno announces grandly, “this is our conference room. I thought we should have an independent adjudicator, and here he is: King Dust; the lord of the wasteland.”

“Queen,” Kylo says, a cold sweat standing on his brow beneath the mask.

“What’s that?”

“She was a queen.”

Hux turns his head and gives Kylo a look of alarm and reproach. _Don’t you dare embarrass me._

Storno grins, cards his fingers through the side of his mustache. “That so? I stand corrected: Her Majesty, Queen Dusty.” He holds one arm out and bends down into a bow. There comes a stamping and banging from the entrance and two of Storno’s crew come in sideways, bent over and shuffling as they carry between them a dented metal vessel about half a metre tall that is puffing out the scent of wood smoke. One of them burns his hand on the side, jumping back with a hiss and stream of colourful curses.

“Well it’s hot alright,” Storno says with a grin. He watches with satisfaction as the barabel enters and fits a clay, volcano-shaped vessel to the top of the stove, then turns his gaze back to Hux. “So, General, what have you got for me?”

Kylo looks on in surprise as Hux reaches into the inner pocket of his greatcoat and takes out a round parcel about the size of his palm, wrapped in some kind of animal hide. He holds it out to Storno with a look of disdain.

“Now Hux,” Storno says chidingly. “I know you can be more gracious than that. Give a gift with two hands.”

“Fuck you,” Hux says, pushing the disc into Storno’s chest. Storno takes it, then pulls a knife from his belt. Kylo’s hand flies to his saber but, feeling no violent intention, he does not draw it.

Storno unwraps the hide and digs into the contents with the tip of his knife. He pulls out what looks like tiny twigs or threads. “Oh,” he says, grinning. He leans down and sniffs. “That is nice. Gatalentan?”

Hux nods, hands clasped behind his back.

“How did you afford that?” Storno’s eyes twinkle. “Did you mortgage the destroyer?”

Hux sneers wordlessly, baring his teeth. Storno laughs again. “Let’s sit down then. Treadaway, get the kit.”

“Where is it?”

“Box with the diamond stamp.”

As Treadaway goes to work opening the crate, the company distribute themselves around the table. Sitting or kneeling on the strips of cloth that have been stretched out on the floor – looted winding sheets, Kylo assumes. The part he seats himself on has the faint outline of a face on it.

“Head of the table, Hux. You’re the guest of honour. That’s right, Kylo Ren, you should be at the general’s right hand.” Hux takes his place with a fastidious look, pulling the tails of his coat under himself. Kylo is kneeling, the old familiar pain in his knees and thighs reminding him of his padawan days.

Treadaway produces a lacquer box from within one of the larger crates. He holds it out to Storno, who shakes his head in refusal. “Hux is the guest of honour.”

Treadaway makes a dismissive sound. “He doesn’t remember how.”

“Of course he does. Hux never forgets.”

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

Hux enters the dorm room to find Saff and Trulaw occupying an upper bunk. Trulaw is sitting upright with a datapad and stylus in hand, Saff reclining with his feet in Trulaw’s lap, head crooked at an angle as he bounces a gyroball off the angles of the ceiling. Yungkai is crouching on the hard duracrete floor bashing on the dusty, yellowed casing of a defunct 36B holocam with the blunt end of a hydrospanner, his expression one of frustration.

“Stop that,” Hux shouts over the din. “You look like a troglodyte. What exactly are you trying to achieve?”  

“Need a motion sensor. For that proximity alarm you said to put over the door.”

“Well you’re not getting anywhere, are you? Wait until Cord gets back from hand-to-hand.”

“Fine,” Yungkai drops the hydrospanner with a clatter and straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck.

“In the meantime,” Hux continues, “go and find Berkal. He’s probably in Folohn’s room. Go and ask Berkal for help with your homework.”

“Trulaw’s doing it.”

“Folohn doesn’t know that, does he? And if you don’t want him to put two and two together about why you’re a dolt in class and a prodigy in your essays, then you’d better craft a convincing scenario.”

“I’m not a dolt! I already have job offers from Kuat-Entralla and Sienar-Jaemus for when I age out of this hell-hole.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t go around bragging about your plans to escape to private industry. It’s unlikely to endear you to your Imperial war veteran superiors.”

“Comp isn’t even a real subject! Who cares what the snowbloom symbolizes? It’s not like you’re going to talk the enemy into submission.”

“Well,” Trulaw remarks mildly, “if anyone could it would be Hux. Is that your plan, General? A bloodless coup; blathering the enemy to death?”

“Shut up, Trulaw.” Hux turns his attention back to Yungkai. “Go on. You know how I feel about weak links.”

Yunkai’s fine, arched eyebrows twitch upwards in incredulity. “Meaning me? I’m the weak link? Frakking Berkal doesn’t know what day of the week it is and it takes him ten minutes to get through a door.”

“It’s not his fault,” Saff objects.

“That isn’t your problem,” Hux points a finger at Yungkai. “You let me worry about Berkal.”

“Are you though?” Yungkai snaps back. “Because he is not holding it together, not even a little. We’re all in it – in that thing. If he loses it…”

“You’re the one losing it. Just keep your mouth shut and be about your business. That case is closed, understand – no-one’s looking for trouble, least of all Prell.”

“That new kid is sniffing around.”

“Storno?”

Yungkai nods. “He’s trouble. He came up and asked me if I _needed_ anything. He had a look, you know? ”

Trulaw makes a scoffing sound. “You’re paranoid and delusional.”

“And what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything, I told him there’s no talking in study hall.”

“Then you did say something.” Hux rolls his eyes. “Don’t let him near Berkal.”

“How am I meant to do that? I don’t have Berkal on a leash.”

Hux waves a hand, irritated. “We’ll discuss it later. Just go and find him.”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Yungkai snaps back sarcastically, heading out with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

Trulaw heaves a loud sigh into the quiet that follows. “You shouldn’t aggravate him.”

“He’s always aggravated,” Hux sniffs. “It’s his natural state of being.”

“One day you’ll go too far, Hux,” Trulaw says in Captain Riggs’ gruff voice.

“You know, I think it’s in very poor taste for you–” Hux breaks off when a series of shrill pips come through the intercom above the door, warning of an imminent announcement.

_“Attention. Attention. Cadet A. Trulaw to report immediately to the office of Commandant Prell.”_

Hux’s head swivels around and his eyes narrow. “What the fuck did you do?”

Trulaw raises his hands, eyes wide and round in a rare expression of shock. “Nothing!”

“I don’t have time for this. Tell me what you’ve done.”

“How dare you – the stars above know I lead a pure and blameless life!”

Saff lifts his head, raising himself on his elbows to look at Trulaw. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, best not. Here,” Trulaw hands the datapad off to Saff. “Fix those parts I’ve highlighted. Try not to kill me with tautologies this time.”

“What’s a tautology?”

“The Battle of Yavin took place above the planet Yavin IV which is why it’s called the Battle of Yavin. The Imperial forces arrived in succession, one after another–”

“Fuck off, I don’t write like that.” Saff kicks Trulaw’s shoulder with a socked foot and the other boy laughs, pushing himself off the edge of the bunk to land on the floor.

Hux narrows his eyes as he watches Trulaw fastening his boots and zipping up his jacket. Trulaw smiles and says: “buck up, General, you worry too much.”

Soon after Trulaw departs, Knight arrives, slotting his datapad into its place in the shelf cubby.

“Where have you been?” Hux demands, sitting cross-legged on the upper bunk.

“Galactic trade languages.” Knight blinks at him. “I told you I transferred electives.”

“Did you?” Hux snorts. “I can’t imagine why you’d take it into your head to do that. Isn’t that what we have protocol droids for?”

Knight shrugs, seeming neither annoyed by the remark nor inclined to refute it. “How’s mechanics?”

“Awful. The pairings were announced for the final project and I’m stuck with Karswel – that lazy, moronic little creep. I’m going to have a word with Wivenhoe tomorrow, see if he can get the assignments changed.”

“Do you think he will?”

“Maybe. I’m going to try that before I consider more… drastic solutions.”

“Okay,” Knight says, rubbing his right eye. Hux wonders for a moment if the gesture is deliberate – maybe Trulaw is right, he is getting paranoid. There is something about this year… everything seems to be speeding up, hurtling towards the uncertain conclusion of their graduation and dispersal. Is it any wonder Hux is jumpy?

The drawn-out buzzer sounds for first sitting in the dining hall. There is a sudden noise and movement outside as the other senior boys rush out for the meagre serving. Hux jumps down off his bunk and calls up to Saff, who is still frowning intently at his datapad. “You coming, Saff?"

“In a minute. I want to see if Trulaw comes back.”

“Well, suit yourself.” He jerks his chin and Knight follows him out to the hall.

After receiving their meals, Hux and Knight sit down at their accustomed table. They are joined a moment later by an uninvited guest: a small, chubby figure now outfitted in a full cadet’s uniform, though his hair and gold-accented grin remain decidedly non-regulation.

“Hmm, what have we here?” Storno says, looking down at his tray. “Cubes, comma, assorted, comma, freeze-dried. I bet they’ve had this batch in storage since before you were even a twinkle in your daddy’s eye.”

“Are you _lost_?” Hux sneers.

Storno raises his eyes and grins broadly at him. “How’s it going, General? That’s what your friends call you, right?”

“I thought we had established that you and I are not friends, Storno.”

“You just haven’t gotten to know me yet. I’m very personable.” Storno gestures across the table with his fork. “Hey Knight. What’s up? Knight thinks I’m a good guy, right? We had a nice talk the other day.”

Knight does not answer, and Hux feels himself growing flushed with anger. “What the hell do you want?”

“Me? Not a thing. I mean I could probably go for some central heating and edible food, but you can’t expect the lap of luxury.” Storno pours liquid from his beverage cup onto the protein cubes and begins to mash the resultant mixture into a slurry. “I just came to offer my condolences,” he remarks. “Real shame about your boy Trulaw. That’s some heavy shit.”

“Frakk off,” Hux snaps, at the same moment Knight asks: “what happened to Trulaw?”

“He doesn’t know,” Hux says, glaring at Knight. “He’s just trying to get a rise out of us.”

“Why would I do that?” Storno replies, lifting his eyebrows in an expression of innocent perplexity.

“Go on then,” Hux says, giving him a supercilious smile. “What happened to Trulaw, since you know so much?”

“His dad died.”

“Yeah right.” Hux snorts dismissively. “Every time anyone gets called to Prell’s office the rumour starts up that someone died – Trulaw’s family are _civilians_ , what could possibly happen to them out in the Core?”

“There’s a lot of ways to die, man. Anyway, that’s what I heard. Haarling got it from Roeg – he had a shift on the comms.” Storno looks up at him, dark eyes piercing as he shoves a forkful of the grainy carbohydrate paste into his mouth. “I figured you’d want to know. You know, since you are he are so close, and all.”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“He’s your best friend, right? Or more than that, maybe. Good-looking guy. _Pretty_ , some say.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hux says at the same moment Knight blurts out “they’re not best friends!”

Storno tisks, sitting back. “Mm – seems like I gotta check my facts! Well–”

Just then, a shadow falls across Storno and a deep voice says: “you’re in my seat.”

Storno looks up and smiles. “Hey it’s _Cord_ , right? What’s up, man?”

“Get out of my seat before I rearrange your face with that tray.”

“Good talk,” Storno makes finger blasters at Hux and then slides off the chair, heading off to the Dorm Five table to take his place between Kang and Gelleher.

Cord sits down and ducks his head to begin the serious business of shovelling food into his mouth. Hux sighs – in many ways Cord is the most loyal and incorruptible, if only because he has no interest in politics or susceptibility to charm – an inert material.

Yungkai enters the dining hall soon after (and Berkal a few minutes after that) and when the meal is finished they leave as a group. The denizens of Dorm Six then return to their room to find Trulaw and Saff sitting on Trulaw’s bottom bunk. Saff has his arms around Trulaw’s shoulders and his head bowed and they are sitting so still and silent that they look like a painting. There is an open foot locker on the floor in front of them; a dress white jacket slumped half in, half out of it.

“Frakk, are you being expelled?” Yungkai asks, stopping so abruptly that Knight walks into the back of him.

Trulaw looks up, his face stiff and blank for a moment before his ironical smile slides back into place. “I should be so lucky. I’ve been granted leave to attend a funeral.”

“Shit,” Cord grunts. “Who died?”

“My father.”

The room collectively holds its breath, or so it seems – except for Berkal, who is still standing the other side of the threshold, muttering something inaudibly.

“Oh,” Saff says, looking stricken. “I’m so sorry. Stars–” He puts his arm around Trulaw’s neck and presses their foreheads together in a silent gesture of grief. Trulaw allows it for a few seconds and then awkwardly pats the other cadet’s shoulder, shrugging out from under the weight of Saff’s arm.

“It’s not as if we were close,” he says, and he sniffs – a dismissive sound.

There is a long, tense silence. Everyone looks away from Trulaw, not wanting to observe his grief, if any is to be seen. Cord is the only one who watches – impassive, as always, as if he is looking at an image on a datapad screen. Hux feels the curious gazes turning to him, the group looking to their leader for a cue; evaluating him, in this moment.

“When do you leave?” Hux asks, keeping his voice matter-of-fact.

“There’s a supply shuttle departing tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred, allegedly. Climate permitting.”

“Ah,” Hux nods. “I suppose you can transfer from the port on Sullust.”

“Yes,” Trulaw closes the locker and shoves it away from him with the heel of his boot. Still in the doorway, Berkal makes a sound of anguished frustration, rubbing his hands over his face and shaking out his hands at the wrist before he recommences his low muttering.

“How’d it happen?” Cord asks.

“Cord shut the fuck up,” Hux snaps. “You can’t ask him that.”

“Why not?”

“Was your dad sick?” Knight chimes in.

“He drowned.”

“Drowned?” Saff repeats, sounding puzzled.

“Yes,” a muscle jumps in Trulaw’s jaw as he tenses it. “It was a tragic accident.”

“Drowned,” Saff says again, almost absently. All the cadets know people who died under blaster fire or bombardment, but to just fall into water seems hapless, incredible – almost quaint, somehow. A death divorced from politics; one any idiot, on any planet or moon, could suffer.

Goosebumps crawl up Hux’s neck as he thinks about that: looking up through water, lungs burning. Could he see the sky somewhere above him? What colour was the sky on Corellia?

“Did he fall off a yacht or something?” asks Knight.

Trulaw lets out a strange barking sound that might be laughter. “We don’t have a yacht.”

“No more questions,” Hux says in a forbidding tone, bending down to unlace his boots. “Cord, break open that module on the floor – Yungkai needs the motion sensor.”

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

Treadaway walks around the table and plants the box before Hux. The tall being with the faintly iridescent scales brings over the steaming ceramic volcano and places it before Hux, off to one side of the mysterious lacquered box, then takes their place next to Storno, seemingly some kind of lieutenant in his gang. Everyone looks expectantly at Hux, who rises onto his knees and carefully lifts the hinged lid. He frowns into the box and then takes off his gloves, tucking them into his belt. He takes out a stained cloth and a chipped teapot of some unglazed terracotta. He folds the cloth and places the pot upon it, then takes out a long metal ladle and dips it into the vessel of steaming water, pouring it into the pot and all over its surface, turning the unglazed terracotta a darker hue. He swirls the pot and then pours the water onto the floor, where the parched earth drinks it greedily. Storno grins, apparently entertained by Hux’s performance, or perhaps simply his biddability. He holds out the disc and his knife, turning the handle towards Hux.

For a moment Kylo looks at Hux’s grim profile and wonders if he will slash Storno’s throat, but he takes the knife and digs into the dried cake to prise out more of the dark, gnarled strands, balancing them on the slant of the blade and tipping the contents into the pot.

“Gatalentan bronze needle,” says the figure at Storno’s left in a low, rasping voice. The eyes blink again, wiping horizontally and then vertically. “Grown from one tree on one mountain on one world. The tree is eight hundred years old. Like all of us, it is dying – a slow rot that spreads through its branches. Now, each year it produces enough buds only for one hundred grams of tea. Who knows what harvest will be the last?”

“Those that tend this plant are either scammers or idiots,” Hux says, pouring water on the leaves to dampen them. “Why not take cuttings? You could set a thousand trees to work producing your precious tea.”

“No,” says the alien being. “The aging, the terroir: it is unique. It cannot be manufactured.”

Hux sneers. “Anything can be manufactured if one has the resources and skills.”

“A facsimile,” insists the alien, “is not the thing itself. Likeness is not being.”

Hux frowns as he ladles hot water into the pot. “If you want to be mystical talk to my colleague.”

“It is not mysticism,” the alien insists. “It is semantics.”

“Hux,” Storno announces, gesturing to the alien, “this is Vion-Obe – my wife. They don’t have marriage where she comes from, but that’s what she likes to be called.”

The alien makes a multi-tonal humming sound. “Humans are not temperamentally suited to bonded pairing and yet they force themselves to do it anyway. That hopelessness intrigues me.”

The company at the head of the table pass down their cups and Hux fills them. Hux begins a second infusion and Storno looks across at Kylo. “Can Master Ren not breathe this atmosphere, or is this for effect? Do you want us to get him a straw?”

Hux turns his head and gives Kylo an exasperated look. _Take off your helmet, Ren._

_Snoke says I must cultivate an air of fear and mystery._

_We’re having tea and you look like an idiot._

Ren presses the release and removes his helmet. Storno blinks and his face splits in a wide grin as he takes in Kylo’s face. He throws his head back and laughs. “Hux, you really have a type.” He smacks a hand on their makeshift table and calls down to Treadaway: “Hey, he looks like Knight, don’t you think?”

“Knight was better looking,” Treadaway says. “Wasn’t he blond?”

“You’re thinking of Trulaw. Knight was the one with the freckles who followed Hux around like a kicked hound.”

“Oh yeah. Whatever happened to him? Was he the one that caught it at Thakwaa?”

“Shit,” Storno turns back to Hux, “was he?”

“No, that was Saff.”

“Sweet Jakaya Saff…” Storno gives a low whistle. “I forgot about him. Never understood how he fell into your crowd. Or Berkal.” Storno leans forward, rubbing his chin. “How is Berkal?”

“Second Lieutenant Berkal is fine.”

Storno chuckles. “Somehow I doubt that. There’s a lot of words you could use to describe that guy, but ‘fine’ is not one of them.”

“His treatment programme has made him perfectly stable.”

“Stable. Sure – like a table or a chair.” Storno rolls his eyes. “What happened to the little angry one?”

“He’s on Kuat.”

“Kuat? Figures, with his talents. What about the bruiser?”

“We made him a major.”

“Of course you did. He was a goddamn poster boy: shoot first, ask questions never.”

“Cord?” Treadaway calls down the table. “That fucking psycho deviated my septum.”

“You should have left the pretty one alone. Big Boy had a thing for him.”

“Shame about your little crony Haarling,” Hux cuts in as he pours out the remaining share of the tea.

“He had his chance. Chronic lack of imagination, that one – that’s what got him killed.”

“I rather think the grenade had something to do with it,” Hux remarks.

Storno laughs, slapping Hux’s shoulder. “Drink up, you grim bastard. Hey, wait a minute – Purla, where’s that packet we got from the Baleen-class we knocked over off the Perlemian route?”

“What packet?” asks the selonian, turning to show a chunk of missing fur and scar tissue on the left side of her face.

“The one with the generic label: ‘Meal Ready to Eat Menu Delta Unit Beta’? Should be in that crate in front of you.”

The selonian clears off a space on the makeshift table and opens the storage bin, rooting around until she comes up with a white, cylindrical canister. She lobs this through the air and Storno reaches up to catch it.

“Here,” Storno offers it to Hux, “don’t say I never give you anything.”

Hux takes the canister and examines the serial numbers on it. “This thing is twenty years old.”

“I know. Figure it won’t make much difference – these things weren’t exactly gourmet to begin with.”

Hux twists the cannister, hearing the hiss and pop of the seal giving way. He draws out a long clear-plastic packet and opens the end. The first biscuit falls into his hand broken, a jagged fissure up its middle. Hux stares at it and Kylo can sense the wave of nostalgia brought on by the musty odour of the cheap flour and rancidity of the oil.

“You remember these, right?” Storno prompts. “Your friend Captain Wivenhoe used to give them out.”

“He wasn’t my friend.”

“No, I guess not. I underestimated you back then, Hux – I’m not too proud to admit that. You see, most humans are weak and... what’s that word? Means shallow, easily corrupted?”

“Venal,” Hux replies.

“Yeah. They just want ordinary things – money, physical comforts, nice biscuits – and that makes them easy to handle.” He looks up at Hux from under his heavy brows. “Not you, Hux: you’re a man of principle, and if you ask me that’s the most fucking terrifying thing about you.” Storno reaches out and takes half of the biscuit, munches on it thoughtfully for a moment before he adds: “a _venal_ man – he knows when to stop. When profit is gone, when the going’s not good, he can cut his losses. Not you.”

“And which are you, Storno: venal or principled?”

“You know the answer to that,” Storno takes another bite, grinning around it.

“I don’t think I do, actually. That’s what has always bothered me.”

“Oh I know that. You hated me. I was a bug in your perfect little petri dish. I was an invasive species, fucking up the ecosystem.”

“You’re just a hooligan. There’s nothing very clever or original in smashing things apart.”

Storno laughs again, leaning back in his chair. “Agree to disagree, Hux.”

“Well,” Hux says, “if we’re quite finished with the pleasantries, perhaps we could actually get down to negotiation.”

“Sure. I already know what you want, and it won’t cost _me_ anything to give it to you. You need it though, so that shifts the scales.”

“I’m well aware you think you have the upper hand here. I have no interest in being dinner and a show for your cronies, however. If we’re going to talk, I want them out.”

“Fair enough,” Storno scratches his stubble. “They’re smart cookies, they can entertain themselves. Same goes for your bodyguard, though. Pity – I like having something pretty to look at,” Storno aims a theatrical wink at Kylo, his cheek dimpling.

“No,” Kylo says. “I’m staying.”

“That’s for the general to decide. _Tick-tock_ – you don’t want to be out here when the sun comes up, believe me.” 

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

Yungkai, Cord, Saff and Knight are sitting on the floor between their bunks, knees touching and Trulaw’s foot locker between them serving as a table as they play cards. Hux is reading a datacard on energy conversion, the science of which is probably fifteen years out of date, but as close to enlightenment as he is likely to get for the moment. Trulaw is lying on his bunk with his fingers laced together over his chest. His face exhibits no emotion, and his eyes have a glassy look, as if there is no animating intelligence behind them. Berkal is on the top bunk, datapad resting on his knees as he loses himself in some new fantasy world.  

“What do they do on Corellia when people die?” Knight asks.

“They mourn them, stupid,” Hux answers, darting a surreptitious glance over at Trulaw. “What else?”

“But what’s the culture like – do they bury people, cremate them?”

“They carbonize them,” Trulaw answers tonelessly.

Knight scratches his cheek and reorders his cards. “You mean they turn them into charcoal?”

“No, it’s a much more intensive process than that. In the end they’re a hard, translucent stone they call a soul diamond.”

“Wait,” Yungkai glances up, “you make your relatives into gemstones? Are they valuable?”

Trulaw rolls onto his side, tucking his hands under his cheek. “Well it’s considered taboo to sell human remains, though you can inherit them. I have a ring made out of my grandmother.”

Saff makes a face. “That’s morbid.”

“So was she.”                         

“How do they do it where you come from?” Knight asks, looking up at Hux.

“What do you mean ‘where I come from?’ I grew up on a destroyer, just like you. Before that, Arkanis.”

“Yeah but that was your dad’s place, right?” Yungkai interjects. “The imperial academy. We’re talking about the _before-times_. What planet were your grandparents from?”

“Coruscant.”

The others hiss. “Ooh, core boy,” Cord says.

“Explains a lot,” Yungkai remarks.

“The emperor’s planet,” says Hux primly. “Where was your family before the Empire?”

Yungkai snorts. “Scarp-3.”

“Where the frakk is that?”

“Outer, outer Rim.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Right, because it’s a shithole. Like humans were never meant to live there - the only landmasses are these little rocky plateaus sticking up way up high out of the ocean. No grazing land and the seas are so rough you can’t even fish off the islands. But a bunch of people ended up there anyway, in search of a simpler life, so the story goes – and boy did they get it.”

“What do the people eat?” Knight asks. “If they can’t fish or raise livestock?”

“Seagulls, mainly, and the eggs of the birds that nest in the cliffs. And like, moss and lichen and shit.”

“Gross.” Saff wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah. And that’s how they dispose of the dead, too - put them up on like a bier made of stones. Make some cuts in the corpse to ease it all along – let the gulls pick it clean.”

“Why not just chuck them in the fucking sea?” Cord demands, frowning.

“That’s disrespectful, man,” Yungkai raises his eyebrows and grins.

“Wait,” Knight frowns, “the same gulls they eat for food?”

“Mmhm. Circle of life.”

Cord looks up from his hand of cards. “You ever eat that shit?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s it taste?”

“Gamey and kinda fishy. Got this aftertaste… like _ugh_ – like lamp oil. Which they also make out of seagulls, so...”

Hux sniffs. “You ought to count yourself lucky that your parents escaped to the Empire.”

“Right? Now I get to live in this technically-advanced paradise.” Yungkai stretches out a foot and kicks their sputtering heating unit.

“Where are your people from, Cord?” Hux asks.

“Eriadu.”

“Tarkin’s homeworld.” Hux makes a sound of mild approval. “Saff?”

“Faro.”

“Respectable,” Hux says grudgingly. “What about you, Knight?”

Knight scratches his cheek. “Uh… my mother’s people were from Naboo. My dad’s were from Alderaan.”

“Alderaan!” Hux almost chokes.

“Look they didn’t support Organa. That’s why they left.”

“Just as bloody well they did!”

“Kriff, Knight,” Trulaw remarks, smiling with his eyes closed. “You seem so boring on the surface, but you have all these layers. You’re like an onion of weirdness.”

Yungkai frowns. “What's an onion?”

“You’re an onion,” Cord retorts, elbowing him. “Shut up and play.”

The conversation moves into snipes and light goading about bet placement. When the hand is called Knight is the winner. The others groan and curse softly as Knight scrapes the pile of winnings towards himself. Yungkai complains of cheating; Saff, with a sidelong look at Trulaw, says they should all get some rest. Knight begins filing the cards together and Cord picks up the dented tin box they keep the playing supplies in and sweeps the snipped pieces of coloured electrical wiring and broken power connectors that they use as betting counters into it; the keenly fought-for pieces transformed back into rubbish once again.

There follows twenty minutes of slow bustle as those who are not already undressed for bed put on their sleeping attire and jostle for space in the small, mildewed refresher that adjoins the dormitory. Hux puts away his datapad and curls up on his side, shivering under the thin sheet and scratchy blanket. He looks down at Trulaw, who is lying on his back again. His bunk light is off but Saff’s is still on, and the shadows are hitting him oddly, making his eyes seem like deep hollows and his skin look greenish and translucent.

The lights go off one by one and the room quietens, talk replaced by slow, regular breathing and light snores. Hux closes his eyes and tries to sleep but his mind is racing: the technical drawings he was scrutinizing a few minutes ago keep drifting across his mind like a slideshow. He also keeps thinking back to the interaction in the dining hall. Is he imagining the edge of gleeful malice in Storno’s eyes? What is it that so unsettles him about that scruffy little nobody from nowhere? Nothing, except that he can’t guess Storno’s purpose here – or, more crucially, what he wants.

Hux’s eyes flick open when he hears creaking and rustling: Trulaw getting out of his bunk. Trulaw is wearing only a thin undershirt and sleeping pants, and doesn’t pause to put on his boots before making his way to the refresher. Hux winces at the thought of how cold and grimy the tiles must feel against the soles of his feet.

Hux rolls onto his back, turns his head and looks at the faint blue light that flickers on at Trulaw’s entry into the far room. He thinks about following him to… to what? Offer his private condolences? Just because he is somewhat familiar with the grip of Trulaw’s cool, slender hand around his cock does not make them intimate.

Perhaps it is just morbid curiosity that draws him. He wonders if Trulaw is crying, if he still _can_. Hux does not know that about himself. Even when he received the message from Brendol to say that he would not be attending the graduation ceremony, Hux just went up to the roof and made a strange choking sound that was almost entirely unlike a sob. A sharp pain settled at the bridge of his nose, his throat and eyes burned, but nothing came out. He supposes he should feel grateful, knowing that he would never again embarrass himself with a spontaneous outburst of tears, but instead it was maddening. He remembers how limp and tired he used to feel, as a child, after he had sobbed all his fear and anger into his pillow. Now his frustrations feel all knotted up inside of him and the mechanism for releasing them is broken.

He hears the sink running and a few moments later Trulaw re-emerges from the ‘fresher. Hux closes his eyes and lies very still, listening to the sounds of the other boy getting back into bed. He hears Trulaw give a long, controlled sigh and then the sound of water sloshing in his empty stomach; a noise like waves lapping against a shore.

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

It is windy on top of the mesa, the static sounds blaring loudly inside Kylo’s helmet. He bends down to help Vion-Obe through the small opening at the top of the sandstone steps. She is troubled by an old injury and their journey up the winding steps has turned the ache in her hip to a screaming pain. Kylo senses this, but the alien herself does not complain, consenting only to lean a little on his arm as she climbs out into the open.

The view is spectacular, the sands rippling away for hundreds of kilometres in every direction, the starlight colouring them a deep blue-grey so that it feels like they are on an island in the middle of a limitless ocean.

“And so,” Vion-Obe says, “we, the wives, must be sent away from the politics. These things are a pleasant novelty to me, so I do not mind playing the part. You must find this tiresome.”

“I’m not Hux’s wife,” Kylo replies. “I am a man.”

“Is that so? Looker said that you were pretty, and so I thought you must be a woman. Pretty is a woman’s word, so I thought.”

“I’m a man and I’m not Hux’s consort – I’m a warrior, and much more powerful than he is.”

“Ah. ‘Wife’ was the wrong word, of course – I see that now. What did I mean? ‘Outsider’, perhaps. We are hangers-on. We do not understand their culture.”

Kylo makes a sound of contempt, feeling suddenly weary of all this – not just of the mission to recover funds and resources, but weary of everything to do with Hux’s past and his stubborn, elliptical way of doing things. “They don’t have a culture. They don’t come from anywhere, they’re exiles.”

“Exiles, you say? Looker thinks of his people as nomads. He does not acknowledge the grip of the ‘before’... but still, they are not so different, I think. Both men go where they please and take what they want – they think the galaxy is a lawful prize.”

“Hux believes he is bringing order to it.”

“Do you think this also?”

Kylo says nothing to this: he will not explain his own unique and perilous destiny to some curious alien. After a short silence Vion-Obe continues: “my people think the best thing in life is to leave no trace behind. We enter this universe as empty vessels and we fill ourselves with knowledge and then, when it is our time, we die. In swamps, traditionally. The swamp is a great absorber of biological material: bodies, knowledge. Down it goes into the damp and the dark, forever. When a tribe member dies we never speak of them again – legends are taboo.”

“What is the point of your lives, then?” Kylo demands. This being bothers him – her presence in the Force is different from a human’s, like hearing a sound that is almost out of range.

“The point?”

“Why even bother living if everything you are dies with you?”

“Oh I see – you wish me to have a _philosophy_ ; some idea of where I am in the great cosmic scheme. I do not know, I only am. If you asked another of my species they would give you a different answer, probably. We do not have shared visions.” She blinks in that slow, hypnotic pattern, the surface of her eye is dark and prismatic, giving off different colours as she turns. “Looker said you are a Force-user. It is new to me, this belief.”

“It’s not a _belief_ , it’s a fact.”

“Yet one unknown to me, until now. This Force, I am given to understand, is a way of knowing that which is hidden or lost. Objects speak to you. The flesh-idol below told you her secrets.”

Kylo scowls beneath his mask – while not strictly-speaking incorrect, this description of his intuitive powers seems small and cheap, like a confidence trick.

Vion-Obe moves towards the edge, gazing down at the petrified vegetation below. “What happened in this place, do you know?”

“It was an ecological disaster. A… meteor. Something from the sky.”

“Were they afraid?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if it happened quickly or slowly. Slowly, I think. They took themselves to the catacombs, like they were lying down to sleep; each one neatly slotting themselves away. Beautiful, is it not? And terrible. Some things are both.”

“Yes,” Kylo answers tonelessly.

“Looker likes it here. He thinks it will be instructive to your General Hux.”

“What?”

“This… empire of dust,” Vion-Obe gestures with a gloved hand. “However, your Hux does not strike me as a man so easily discouraged.”

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

Hux has the speech prepared in his mind: he knows how he will broach the subject; he has imagined the kinds of remarks Captain Wivenhoe might respond with, and has thought how to parry, and to return each back to the topic at hand. He has thought of how to do this with just the right amount of firmness, so as to not seem weak, but also not to betray his eagerness. Wivenhoe seems to have an instinct for that – small weaknesses and discomforts.

When Hux reaches the captain’s quarters, he finds the door open and can hear the murmuring sound of jovial conversation coming from within. He puts his head around the door to see if he is interrupting something.

“Ah,” calls Wivenhoe. “Hux, do come in.”

Hux looks from Wivenhoe to the other guests: Kallic, as usual: a silent, watchful boy who seems to have nothing to recommend him beyond a minor war hero for a father; Treadaway, an arrogant dorm-fiver who is thankfully a more infrequent guest; and a dark-haired, diminutive figure who swivels in his chair and beams at Hux.

“Hux, have you met the newest recruit?” Wivenhoe gestures.

“Oh we’ve met,” Storno says with a sly look. Hux glares at him: he is in the second-best chair.

“Ah, excellent. Come and sit down, Hux. Storno has brought us some tea. I imagine you’ve never tasted it before  – it used to be quite the ‘in’ thing when I was at Lothal to spend one’s free time at the teahouses. We were too young to get in any worse trouble, then.”

Hux takes the last unoccupied seat, a wobbly three-legged stool.

“Young Storno here tells me that there’s quite an art to making it where he comes from.”

“Not where _I_ come from, sir,” Storno says, lifting a ceramic vessel with a spout on one side. “On Ankol-vel-Garr, where this particular tea comes from. It’s a mountainous landmass on a Class M planet in what you call the Unknown Regions. We used to pass through and trade with the natives there.”

“I imagine you saw and experienced a great deal in your time in the Unknown Regions, Storno. There are very few untouched planets in the known galaxy – few that haven’t had contact with the human species, that is. You must have seen some fascinating, truly savage lands.”

 “‘Savage’ is a matter of perspective, sir,” Storno says lightly as he pours a stream of yellow-green liquid into the captain’s plastex cup. “Every culture thinks of itself as refined, even the most brutal, warmongering ones. They all have their traditions and justifications.”

“Is that Map-Corps philosophy?” Hux quips, not quite able to suppress a sneer.

Storno’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Sure.”

“If all cultures are refined in their own way, why should we aim to impose a shared government and values?”

Wivenhoe smiles, threading his fingers together over one bony knee. “A fair question, if a little sharply put.”

“Careful, Storno,” says Treadaway with a smirk. “Hux is a heretic-hunter. He’ll report you to the commandant for nonconformity.”

Hux gives him a filthy look. “Please. I just think if Cadet Storno is going to spout cultural relativism he should be able to explain how he reconciles that belief with our values. If he doesn’t believe in the justness of the Empire, why is he attending a military academy?”

“I look at it this way,” Storno says, pouring tea into the cup set at Hux’s place. “Big organizations have lots of departments, right? The guys in engineering don’t need to know how to do administration’s job. So you young military leaders of tomorrow need to know all the whys and wherefores: after all, you’re going to lead the troops and make the speeches. That’s not Map-Corps’ job – to do what we do you need… a different set of skills.”

“What is Map-Corps’ job?” Wivenhoe asks, “If that’s not classified information.”

“Nah, it’s not a secret. Map-Corps maps unknown territories. We make first contact with the native inhabitants of any planets with useful resources. Trade with them, where possible – not necessarily to benefit ourselves, just making connections, you understand?”

“Who regulates you out there?” Hux folds his arms across his chest, steadying the wobbly seat with his back foot. “Even in the days of the centralized government it must have been difficult – if not impossible – to send and receive transmissions over immense distances.”

“Oh we regulate ourselves pretty well,” Storno slurps his tea and grins at Hux. “We’re all pulling for the same team in the end, aren’t we?”

Hux wants rather badly to make a smart retort to this, but he holds his tongue.

Wivenhoe smiles placidly. “I hope you haven’t encountered too much prejudice here, Storno. I understand that there are those who think Map-Corps are just buccaneers.”

“Who said that?” Storno asks, lifting his eyebrows as if in shock.

“Just something I heard – you know how people are inclined to gossip in a small settlement such as this one. In my day there was a rumour that the more troublesome or… colourful officers got transferred to deep space missions.”

“That would be unethical, wouldn’t it? Just shunting people off like that rather than disciplining them.” Storno shakes his head, as if in disapproval. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Even the great Galactic Empire had its failings, I’m afraid.”

“Careful, sir,” Treadaway quips. “Hux will report _you_ next.”

“I’m well aware that the Empire had faults, Treadaway,” Hux retorts. “We study them in our history classes and dissect them in tactics.”

“Cadet Hux is rather short on good-humour today, it appears,” says Wivenhoe with a smirk. “Well, let’s drink our tea before it gets cold.”

“Cheers,” says Storno, lifting his cup. Fearing to look like a bad sport again, Hux lifts his cup and takes a small sip. The result is strange and unpleasant – he was expecting something like the thick, starchy texture of an electrolyte beverage, but finds it thin and almost drying on the roof of his mouth. The taste is slight: smoky and faintly bitter.

“Wonderful,” Wivenhoe pronounces, “so refreshing and complex!”

Kallic and Treadaway make vague murmuring sounds of agreement. Hux puts down his cup and says nothing, though he knows the truth: Storno has just perpetrated a practical joke on these credulous fools, passing off his disgusting leaf-water as a delicacy. He despises the lot of them.

“Captain,” Hux says, lingering behind when everyone has finished their refreshments and risen to go. “I wonder if I could have a brief word with you, if you have the time. It’s about practical mechanics.”

“Ah, is the final project giving you trouble?”

“Not the project, sir. It’s just… the cadet I’ve been paired with, Karswel, he’s not really up to it. I have no problem helping a classmate, of course, but this boy told me flat out he doesn’t care about the project as long as he scrapes a passing grade. I was wondering if we could be reassigned. I would work much better with someone else – I already have a good rapport with Yungkai, or Trulaw, for that matter.”

“I don’t know about that, Hux. It’s not really in the spirit of the thing, is it? After all, we must all overcome adversity in our careers.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s very important I’m able to maintain my grade point average. My offer for next year is conditional.”

Wivenhoe looks thoughtful. “Yungkai and Trulaw are part of your set, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir, they’re my dorm-mates, so we would be able to work on the project after class.”

Wivenhoe frowns. “In my day the forming of cliques was discouraged. You won’t always be a big fish in a little pond, Hux. It doesn’t do to get too attached or romantic about one’s friends. That boy Trulaw is Corellian, isn’t he? I wouldn’t have counted him a particularly useful connection. Yungkai is a clever fellow, but hardly cut out for leadership.”

Hux colours, digging his nails into his palms.

“Still,” Wivenhoe continues, “I do take your point about maintaining your grades. You come from good stock and I see a bright future ahead of you. I even fancy myself something of a mentor to you – I hope you see that.”

“Yes sir, of course. I’m grateful for your advice and guidance.”

“I’m not going to let you pair you up with a crony, but I’ll find someone bright who won’t disgrace you – how about that?”

“That’s more than fair, sir.”

“Excellent.” Wivenhoe gives Hux’s shoulder a manly pat. “Better hurry if you don’t want to be late in to dinner.” He lifts up the plate that was sitting on the table. “Here, take one of these for afters.”

Hux takes one of the proffered biscuits – it feels as heavy as a stone in his hand. He slips it into his pocket and salutes. “Thank-you, sir.”


	3. Chapter 3

**34 ABY**

The Administration headquarters on FOC-19 are recognisably First Order in terms of architecture – duracrete, bold geometric shapes. Yet there is something airier and more refined about the building, as if it were self-consciously setting itself apart from the military. A more sophisticated sibling, rising literally and figuratively above its brute origins.

Hux is walking at that fast clip which he thinks makes him look decisive, powerful, and unassailable. He has plastered down his hair more firmly than usual and the dark circles under his eyes are pronounced, the deep black-purple of a fresh bruise. They walk into the building’s main foyer and Hux makes a beeline for the man standing behind a podium that flares at the top like an abstract flower trumpet. He has sharply-cut facial features and hair of such an icy blond that it almost blends seamlessly into the pale skin of his forehead. The plaque on his podium reads ‘administration hub representative’.

“General Hux and Commander Ren to see the Director,” Hux announces, a little more loudly than he needs to.

The man looks up, his features hardening in cool disapproval as he takes Hux and Kylo in. He taps something into the screen before him. “Yes, General, if you will wait by the barrier someone will be down shortly to escort you to the conference room.”

“‘Wait by the barrier’,” Hux seethes under his breath as he turns. “Are we a herd of nerfs? And who is that jumped-up little so-and-so to call me ‘General’ instead of ‘sir’?”

Kylo says nothing, as he considers Hux’s obsession with the intricacies of rank to be extremely foolish and petty. Privately, however, the place unsettles him too – it has an airiness and polish of wealth that reminds him of the offices of New Republican senators. He remembers sitting on sleek, uncomfortable couches swinging his feet and listening to the murmurings of voices from the office beyond – his mother’s voice, sooner or later, rising stridently above the rest.

After only a brief wait, they are greeted by a tall, elegant woman with a datapad. The outfit she wears – a pale grey dress with a double-breasted fastening – is not quite a uniform. None of the energetic people Kylo sees moving back and forth across the foyer and upper walkways – gliding as if on rails – are dressed exactly the same. They have a unifying aesthetic (black, greys, and blues; everything minimalist and sober – no embellishments or unnecessary swags of fabric; hair kept short or tied back), but no uniform. He notes that they all have metal tags clipped to their lapels, which must be some kind of rank cylinder or ID.

The woman in pale grey greets them with the same cold, disinterested air as the man at the podium: “General Hux and Commander Ren, the director is expecting you. If you’ll come this way.” She swipes to open the barrier and turns to leads them towards a bank of turbolifts, where she touches her tag to some sort of scanning device to summon the lift module. When they enter the module, Kylo notes that only some of the buttons on the keypad inside are illuminated – whoever this person is, she has limited access; by association, so do he and Hux.

Kylo can feel Hux is still stewing about this. It has been many years since he was greeted by anyone less than a lieutenant, and with anything less than grovelling obsequiousness. He is thinking about how very _civilian_ it all is; the lack of uniform and rank stripes suggest to him disorder and an unacceptable – in fact dangerous – lack of decorum.

The doors open with a soft ding and the woman leads them along a corridor illuminated by hazy sunshine from the huge, central skylight. They proceed to a conference room and even this is a departure from usual standards. On the Finalizer, conference areas are long, viewportless rooms with chairs and a large holoprojecting table: functional spaces for focussing on a task and making decisions. This room has curved bank of windows and two stuffed, semi-circular couches. In the centre of the circle formed by the couches is a low table that holds a platter with a selection of pastries, the guests’ places mapped out by dainty caf-cups.

“Please be seated,” their guide instructs. “The director will be with you shortly.” Without any further pleasantries, the woman turns and exits, leaving them alone in the afternoon sunshine.

Hux sits down, crossing one leg over the other and straightening the fabric of his trousers. Kylo pauses to gaze out the windows, looking across the skyline at all the municipal buildings. FOC-19 is a cold, arid dwarf planet in the Koradin sector of the Outer Rim, but terraforming has made a prettyish settlement for the Order’s administrative hub. Below him Kylo can see employee housing – terraced blocks in yellow and pink stone and larger domed complexes which house entertainment and amenities. In the distance, dust and smoke rises from the cargo bays, where huge freighters descend to deposit and collect containers of weapons and building materials.

Hux picks up a pink wafer biscuit and stares at it as if it displeases him, before replacing it on the plate. “She’s doing this on purpose,” he says.

“Doing what?”

“Taunting me with these extravagances, making me wait. These stylus-pushers have ideas decidedly above their station.”

Kylo turns his back to the vista. “I thought we were here because you need a favour.”

Hux narrows his eyes, but before he can make a retort the doors open and a woman enters wearing a deep plum coloured dress with a high, standing collar and a capelet that covers her shoulders, clipped on with gold embellishments. Her skin is a golden brown and she wears her dark hair in a sleek chignon. She has strong facial features: an aquiline nose, thick, arched eyebrows, and dark, hooded eyes – this surprises Kylo, because in Hux’s memories this woman is rather mousy and unremarkable. Either she has grown into her looks considerably since the age of seventeen, or Hux has allowed his disapproval to colour his recollection of her.

“Director Knight,” Hux says, standing. “So good of you to meet with us at such short notice.”

“But of course,” she gives a complacent smile.

“This is my co-commander, Kylo Ren,” Hux indicates Kylo with a wave of his hand. “The Supreme Leader’s apprentice.”

“Yes, of course. Please join us, Commander.” Lina Knight takes a seat across from Hux and pours herself a cup of caf from the pot. Kylo takes his place next to Hux, sitting with his knees spread and an arm across the back of the couch. Hux refers to this posture as a ‘lordly sprawl’ and tells him it makes him look like the entitled new-republican brat that he is, but Kylo is unrepentant. He knows his own importance: he deserves to take up space.

“Do help yourselves to caf and pastries, if you want them.” The director does not, Kylo notes, offer to serve them anything, though she has filled the cup next to the empty space to her right.

“Who else is joining us?” Hux asks, nodding towards the fourth place-setting.

“I sent for the governor.”

Hux’s cheek twitches like it does when he’s trying to keep down a spasm of rage. “Was that necessary?”

“If I understand your initial request correctly, then there is an issue with jurisdiction.”

_Bitch_ , Hux thinks and it shocks Kylo - how clear and well-formed the word is in Hux’s mind. Kylo has never heard him say or think that insult before – Hux, for all his failings, does not hate women or think of his female colleagues as lesser. Director Knight, it appears, brings out his worst and pettiest side.

Hux sits up straighter. “I understood time was rather short for this meeting. Should we get underway without the governor?”

“He’ll be here shortly and I’m sure we can manage some time for... _pleasantries_.”

Hux gives the smile which is more of a baring of his teeth. “How are the children, Lina?”

“Very well, thank-you.”

“What age are they now?”

“Herne is eight, Vaila is five.”

“I imagine you’ll be sending the eldest off to an academy soon. They take them at ten now, I understand – it’s a much more thorough education these days.”

“We’ll do what’s best for Herne, when the time comes.”

Hux’s eyes glitter with scornful amusement. “Very diplomatic.”  

The doors slide apart with a muted tone and a man enters. He is tall with dark hair and a pale, asymmetrical face speckled here and there with dark freckles. He wears a dark, high-collared robe, the outer layer subtly embroidered with a diamond pattern in steel grey thread.

Hux rises to his feet reflexively, as if a superior officer has entered the room. The dark-haired man stops in his tracks and they look at each other for a long moment before Director Knight breaks the silence: “General, of course you know my husband.”

“Yes,” Hux replies, not taking his eyes off the governor. “It’s been a long time. You look very well, Erril.”

Governor Knight does not return the compliment, possibly because telling Hux (with his waxen, sunless complexion and bruise-dark circles under his eyes) that he looks ‘well’ would be a transparent falsehood. “Armitage. That uniform suits you.” He blinks at Hux and then his face twitches into a smile that makes him look much younger. “I always knew you’d come this far.”

“Yes well…” Hux sniffs and looks over at Kylo. “This is my associate, Commander Ren.”

“Ah yes. We’ve met.”

Hux’s eyebrow does its tell-tale jerk. “You’ve _met_?”

“Briefly,” Governor Knight comes around the sofa and takes a seat next to his wife, folding his hands in his lap. “We were able to assist him in a small matter of supplies some weeks ago.”

“I see,” Hux says with affected lightness. “Well then, shall we get to the matter at hand?”

“The general is all business today,” Director Knight remarks.  

“I know that you are both extremely busy. I would not like to lay too heavy a demand on your time.” Hux hates being cornered like this, Kylo knows. He has a niggling awareness of his own lack of social graces, and it irks him all the more to be reminded of it by those who come from an identical background.

“The person in question...” Governor Knight says, raising his eyes in thought. Kylo stares, unseen, at the one enlarged pupil.  “Certainly he could be reassigned.”

“Reassignment is a very simple matter,” the director agrees. “One code becomes another in our records. Even… unorthodox transfers – which is to say those outside normal career trajectories – are not questioned, for the most part. But you’re proposing something _outside the system_.”

“Are you saying, Director,” Hux begins, wary and uncertain, “that as a matter of record, no-one ever leaves the First Order?”

The director sips her caf and delicately replaces the cup within the rim of the saucer. “Of course, there is a ‘deceased’ classification, but that requires documentation from other branches.”

“As I understand it,” Governor Knight puts in, “the system is designed to reflect a certain… shall we say, optimism and determination?”

“That may be,” Kylo speaks up, and the others startle at the sound of his artificially modulated voice. “But there are exceptions. You know of some, Director.”

A flicker of displeasure crosses the director’s features. Her husband turns his head and looks at her, an expression of interest. “Is that true, Lina?”

Director Knight makes a dismissive gesture. Her hands are bare, the nails oval-shaped and impeccably lacquered. “There are always loopholes, much as we might wish it otherwise.”

“People are messy,” Kylo says, echoing her thoughts, “they defy neat classifications. Yet there must be somewhere to put these individuals. A rug to sweep them under.” Hux is looking at him the same way the governor is looking at the director – with interest and a hint of suspicion.

After a pause, the director admits: “there are dummy codes. Most of them are for highly classified work – undercover agents, for instance; intelligence gatherers. And then there are the codes we inherited from the Empire.”

“Inherited?” Hux’s eyebrows twitch up.

“Nothing in the Order was built entirely from scratch – you of all people should know that, General.”

Hux sighs, visibly impatient.  “What are the codes that you inherited, then? And how are they relevant to this situation?”

“Well,” the director aims a significant glance at him, “Map Corps still exist.”

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

“The wind will change and you’ll stay that way,” says Trulaw, perching on one hip on the edge of Hux’s workbench. He is slowly turning the ball joint from the end of a steering vane in his hands, twisting it idly back and forth.

“Don’t you have anything to do?” Hux snaps, pushing up his goggles.

“Me? Not a thing. Yungkai won’t let me touch his precious baby. I’m not even allowed to see the plans.”

“So what, you’ve decided to sabotage my project by distracting me?”

“Do you find me distracting, Hux?” Trulaw curls the backs of his fingers against his jaw in a winsome pose. Since he came back from Corellia he has seemed in good spirits – more bold and flirtatious than before, even.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“How do you like your new partner?” Trulaw gestures with his eyes to where Storno is bent over the edge of a large metal trunk, sorting through components and tossing the undesirable ones aside with loud, reverberating clangs. Storno’s uniform trousers have slipped down and he is displaying a good few centimetres of butt crack.

“Here,” Hux holds up a hot strip of soldering alloy pinched in his tongs. “I dare you to go and drop this down the back of his pants.”

“Ha!” Trulaw dismisses the offer with a wave of his hand. He narrows his eyes as he stares across the room. “It’s sort of hypnotic, don’t you think?”

“What, Storno’s arse?” Hux scoffs, incredulous.

“Mmm,” Trulaw taps the side of his chin with a forefinger. “I’ve been wondering: if I smacked it, do you think it would jiggle like that violently pink pudding they serve on Benduday?”

“If you fuck him, you’re out of the dorm – I mean it.”

“Please. I’m not going to fuck him – stars only know where he’s been. How’d you end up with him anyway? I thought you had Wivenhoe wrapped around your little finger.”

Hux’s lips press into a firm line. “Yes, well – we’ll see about that.”

Metal components rain down on the table top with a discordant clatter, jarring Hux’s setup. Storno grins, displaying the prominent gap between his front teeth. “Hey Trulaw. Long time no see.”

“Storno,” Trulaw replies primly.

“How was Corellia?”

“Oh you know,” Trulaw sighs, “the usual.”

“I’ve never been to the Core,” Storno announces after a brief pause. “Unusual orbits, your system. Planets circling each other, around a star. You don’t see that anywhere else I can think of.” He scratches his chin absently. “What’s it like down on the surface?”

“It varies.”

“You got oceans?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I miss the ocean. There’s this planet – dwarf planet, actually, out in – well, the designation wouldn’t mean anything to you. The water is pink – from mineral deposits – and the sand is pure white and it glitters. It’s like something from a fairytale.”

Trulaw rolls his mournful brown eyes. “You must find it awfully drab here.”

“Oh you know,” Storno winks, displaying a rakish dimple, “there’s still the occasional nice thing to look at.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Hux interrupts, voice soaring in pitch, “is this practical mechanics, or have I joined an elective in idle chit-chat?”

“Well Trulaw’s smart, see,” Storno gestures across the room to where Yungkai is lying under the rusted chassis of a 74-Z speeder bike and beating some part of its repulsorlift engine into submission with a torque wrench. “He just flashes a smile and people do his bidding. Wish I had some of that charm.”

Trulaw snorts. “Yungkai’s as ornery as a raptor-wasp and completely immune to my charms, such as they are. He says I’m going to be the one to pilot, so that’s that I suppose.”

“Is that so?” Storno calls out: “Hey Yungkai!”

There comes the sound of squeaking and Yungkai wheels back the dolly, scrunching up his grease-streaked nose as he peers up at them. “What?”

Storno indicates Trulaw with a jerk of his thumb. “You’re gonna risk this pretty face on that heap of junk?”

“It’s not a heap of junk!” Yungkai yells back. “And I can’t pilot. I have an inner ear problem!”

“You have an inner brain problem,” Trulaw retorts, which earns him an obscene gesture before Yungkai flops down and propels himself back underneath the vehicle.

“I can show you, y’know – how to ride one of these things. Not to brag, but a lot of my misspent youth involved speeding over dangerous and unmapped terrain.”

“‘Misspent youth’!” Hux snorts “You’re seventeen!”

“I’m _eighteen_ ,” Storno says. “So how about a little respect for your elders, Hux?”

Trulaw lets out a full-throated laugh at this remark. “Kriff, if looks could kill…”

 “Gentlemen,” comes Captain Wivenhoe’s voice, cutting across the general din as he looks up from his desk, where he has been assisting two weaker students by talking them through the schematics. “Yes, Messrs Storno, Trulaw and Hux. Get back to your work.”

Trulaw rolls his eyes again and slouches off back to the workspace he shares with Yungkai.

“I don’t blame you for being jealous,” Storno says confidingly when he has gone. “People like him can be dangerous to have around. _Distracting_.”

“What are you talking about?” Hux snaps.

“You know, how he’s gorgeous and knows it and has a captive audience.”

“Shut up, Storno. Did you find a decent thrust flap or not?”

Ignoring his question, Storno leans into Hux’s space and prods the joins of his welding work with the end of a hydrospanner. “What’s this?”

“It’s a power cell booster. It’s going to give us the advantage in forward thrust.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Only if you’re incompetent, or the pilot is.”

“That doesn’t sound like us, does it Hux?”

Hux lowers his goggles, fitting them back into place. “No, it doesn’t.”

***~*~***

**34 ABY**

The meeting ends abruptly when an underling enters and bends to whisper something into Director Knight’s ear. She rises and gives her bland apologies and regrets, then glides smoothly from the room.

“Don’t worry,” Governor Knight says when the door closes behind her, “the request will be granted. Lina knows how bad non-cooperation would look. Much as we might like to pretend everything runs smoothly and autonomously around here, there’s always back-scratching.”

Hux looks faintly scandalized, but he catches himself before he can utter something scornful about lowering themselves to the level of their political opponents. “No system is perfect, one supposes.”

“Well,” Knight says. “Since that’s out of the way – how have you been, Hux?”

Hux clears his throat and slaps his gloves on his knee in a tic that shows his discomfort. “Oh you know, can’t complain.”

“I was sorry to hear about Starkiller. I know you were very involved in the design of that project.” Knight pours himself another delicate cupful of caf. “I was concerned… well, I’m relieved you made it out alive. I heard that the losses on our side were heavy.”

“Yes, thank-you for reminding me of our greatest military failure to date, Knight,” Hux snaps – and even this is an admission. Hux had promised himself he would not go beyond bland pleasantries with Knight; getting angry with him is a slide backwards towards their former intimacy.

Knight’s eyes shine with a sort of painful earnestness – a slide back for him, too. “No, I admired it – Starkiller that is. I could see how it represented your vision for us. I know it was contentious, even within the Order – some people said it was going too far, others that it was just a bigger, flashier Death Star – but that wasn’t your intention. For all that you’re a military man, you’ve never really been into conflict for conflict’s sake – you’re far more practical than that. You wanted to end the war before it began.”

Hux fidgets and avoids his gaze. “I didn’t succeed, clearly.”

“No, but I still admire the vision.”

Hux does not thank Knight for this sentiment. He is burning with a confusing mix of emotions: pride, at having his intentions acknowledged and praised; but also shame, frustration, and cold, hollow doubt. The ends had justified the means with the Hosnian system, of course – and what were the ends, now?

“If you are quite finished with pleasantries,” Kylo cuts in, “we should be returning to the Finalizer. We both have duties to attend to.”

“Yes,” Hux says, catching on Kylo’s interruption like it is a lifeline. “We really must. Please thank the director for her… hospitality.”

“Of course,” Knight rises to his feet. “Allow me to walk you out. The security in this building can be a pain.” He leads them to the door, which obediently slides open at the flourish of his keycard. As they make their way down the corridor beyond, Hux falls into step by Knight’s side as Kylo falls behind them.  Kylo is immediately enraged by Knight’s leisurely pace – he wants nothing more than to break between them and stride ahead, but that would look foolish – he would have to stop and wait for them when he reached the turbolift, tapping his foot like an impatient child.

As they walk, Knight steers Hux back into conversation: “Trulaw told me you came to Corellia for a visit. He said you seemed well, all considered.”

Hux looks ahead, jaw tensing. “Bloody Trulaw should be head of Order propaganda. Everything he blabs certainly gets about.”

“I don’t think he’s very happy, you know. Did he tell you he’s getting divorced?”

“Of course he did – he was in a tragic stupor about it.”

Knight laughs, sounding charmed. “‘A tragic stupor’,” he repeats, pausing to call the lift.

“I’m sure it was all posturing,” Hux says as they step into the lift car. When the doors close with a hushed sound, he adds: “he’s having a fling with Cord now, apparently.”

“Which Cord – _our_ Cord?”

“Of course ‘our’ Cord. The other two Cords are married and dead, respectively.”

Knight rises and falls on the balls of his feet, exhaling deeply. “I mean, I guess I knew Cord had a thing for him, way back–”

“How did you know that?”

“Cord was never exactly subtle.”

Hux scowls. “Why didn’t _I_ know that?”

“No offense Hux, but you weren’t always that observant about people.”

“I have excellent people-skills!”

To his credit, Knight does not laugh at this. The lift dings softly as the doors open and they step out into the atrium. “How did the negotiations with Storno go, by the way? I know you always had a thing about him.”

“Just what are you implying?”

“I don’t know – he always set something off in you. Made you agitated and paranoid.”

“I think I’ve always had an entirely reasonable suspicion of him – he’s a pirate with no allegiance to anything; utterly unprincipled.”

“I always thought he was one of us, in a way.”

“ _Please_ , he was never one of us.” Hux gives Knight an incredulous and disgusted look.  “I caught him grave-robbing, you know – when I turned up to that parley he so insolently demanded. He was literally stripping the valuables off corpses just for the sheer fun of it – that’s the kind of man he is.”

Knight shrugs as if to say he expected as much. “He’s never been one for rules, exactly.”

“And now he’s stooped to kidnapping,” Hux continues in a scandalized tone.   

Knight hums doubtfully. “I don’t know if I’d call it that.”

“What would you call it, then – hostage-taking?”

Knight pauses at the security barrier before the main doors, his hand in his pocket for the key card. He seems abstracted and he turns his face upwards in thought. The light from the glass ceiling overhead illuminates his very pale grey eyes and turns the irises translucent, lending a strange, ethereal look to his asymmetrical face.  “I don’t know,” he says, anticlimactically. There seems to be a lot concealed behind that remark, but even with his Force-intuition, Kylo cannot catch the precise nuance. He thinks he detects a hint of reproach, but it’s not clear who Knight is aiming it at – Storno, Hux, himself?

When they pass through the barrier and reach the foyer, the lackey behind the podium looks up in shock. “Governor Knight! I’m sorry... we weren’t told you’d be using this entrance. Do you need me to call you a speeder?”

“No, I’m just escorting our guests out to theirs.”

The man stares at Hux and Kylo, clearly baffled as to why the governor of the entire planet would bother himself with a dour-looking army officer and a mysterious masked figure that he vaguely thinks might be a messenger from some Outer Rim faction. “Of course, Governor,” he says, flustered. “Please let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

They pass out into the street, the only traffic the occasional long, puttering shuttle that takes workers from their sleeping quarters to the main office buildings.  A speeder with blacked-out windows is idling by the kerb, waiting to take Kylo and Hux back to the shuttle port.

As the door hisses open and up, Knight twists his hands together – a gesture of uncertainty. “Did Trulaw tell you about the plan for the reunion?”

“For the twentieth anniversary. Yes.”

“Maybe we could go back to the old place for a visit. I hear it’s been updated a lot.”

“Maybe. We’ll have to see.” Hux looks doubtful. He is wondering where he will be in three years’ time – victorious, disgraced, or dead?

“We could sit up on the roof, for old times’ sake.”

Hux rolls his eyes. “Just don’t invite Storno.”   

In bidding them goodbye, Knight takes both of Hux’s gloved hands in his and leans in to kiss him on each cheek – a move that seems at once formal and horrifyingly intimate. He does it with such smoothness and assurance that Hux does nothing but stand there in shocked silence.

“Take care, Hux,” he says, stepping back onto the pavement and folding his hands together. He gives Kylo a nod. “A pleasure to meet you again, Commander Ren.”

***~*~***

**17 ABY**

“Can I have a word with you, sir?”

Wivenhoe rubs at his hands with a towel and glances up at Hux as the last noisy remnants of the class disperse, speeders squared away in bays at the far end of the workshop.

“I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry, Hux. I have to get over to the gymnasium.”

“Yes sir, I’m in your next class.”

“Well I suppose we can talk as we walk, as long as it’s briskly.”

Hux falls into step next to Wivenhoe as they exit the workshop, the sliding door trundling squeakily as is grinds closed behind them. They begin to make their way around the outside of the prefab building, squinting against the wind and dust. “Sir it’s about my new partner…”

“Storno, yes. You don’t get along with him, I imagine.”

“That’s putting it mildly. I know I’ve already asked you to switch my group, but–”

“Hux, do you think I paired you with Storno by accident or oversight?” Wivenhoe chuckles and puts a large, heavy hand on Hux’s narrow shoulder. “I know you would like nothing better than that I should put you with one of your cronies, or with some bland, weak-willed boy who would follow your orders and let you have it all your own way.”

Hux swallows back his frustration. “So you mean this as a test of my leadership abilities, sir?”

“I mean it as a lesson in personal growth. Here’s a teaching fallacy: put the quiet, shy child with a bossy, talkative one – the latter will bring the former out of himself. Rubbish!” Wivenhoe makes an emphatic gesture. “Here’s a better approach: put two shy children together and they will muddle their way to communication and decision-making. Put two bossy ones together and they will learn to compromise and share the stage.”

“Yes sir,  I understand your intentions – I know compromise and cooperation are necessary skills. But I mean Storno is… he’s not one of _us_. He doesn’t have the faintest idea how we do things here; he’s totally undisciplined.”

Wivenhoe smiles fondly. “He’s a little rough around the edges, Hux, I agree, but he’s had a wealth of practical experience that you, frankly, lack. Perhaps you should seek to impart some idea of proper discipline and in return receive some of his worldliness.”

“But it’s more than that, sir – I have reason to doubt his loyalty. I’m not sure he’s who he says he is.”

Wivenhoe comes to a stop, boots scraping on the fine gravel that has been scattered in lieu of a path. “Are you accusing a classmate of being a spy?”

“No, not a spy.”

“What then?”

Hux draws himself up tall and keeps his voice level. “Well... ours is a venerable organization with a rich but fractured history. It’s my suspicion that there are those who seek to take advantages of the gaps in the records to lie their way in.”

Wivenhoe blinks at him, expression unreadable. “To what end?”

“So they can make use of our resources and protection.”

“Isn’t that rather paranoid?”

“You should know that better than I, Captain.”

A muscle twitches in the other man’s cheek. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“Well you were around before the fall, weren’t you? You must have noticed a few mediocrities worming their way into favour.”

“That’s enough, Hux,” Wivenhoe’s face tenses, flushing red. “Run along to the changing rooms and don’t you dare let me hear you question my decisions again. You are a student – a child! – I don’t give a damn who your father is, you will respect my authority, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Hux salutes – impeccably – and turns on his heel, running lightly across the packed earth towards the side entrance of the gym.

Just as Hux enters the changing rooms another boy charges past him holding a hand over his face, blood streaming down his chin and the front of his jacket.

“What’s wrong with you?” Trulaw asks, pulling his running vest down over his chest. Cord is standing next to him, already fully dressed in his gym attire, leaning one hand on a locker. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing. What happened to Treadaway’s face?”

“My fist,” says Cord.

“You’d better hope he doesn’t go tattling to one of the captains.”

Cord snorts dismissively. “He won’t. He’d have to explain why I punched him.”

“Which was?”

Trulaw smirks. “He made what my mother would term an ‘improper suggestion’.”

“To Cord?” Hux looks up at the broad shoulders and the broad plains of muscle forming there under the last few millimetres of puppy fat, the kinked line of his nose and perpetually grim set of his mouth – anyone who hits on Cord is a far braver man than Hux.

“To _me_.” Trulaw tugs at the leg hole of his shorts with one finger in an ineffectual attempt to make them less revealing. The elastic snaps back against his inner thigh with a loud _thwap_ that makes him hiss and wince. “It’s not like I’m the pervert who designed these.”

“Captain Pheeb probably did,” Hux says, opening his locker to pull out his own pair of grey and white high-cut knickers.

Trulaw turns to Cord. “Anyway, that was very gallant, thank-you.”

Cord grunts and shrugs with one shoulder. Saff jogs in, almost colliding with his locker in his haste. “Hey did you guys see what happened to Treadaway?”

“Cord’s fist, apparently,” says Hux.

“Ah,” says Saff, hopping on one leg as he tries to drag his trousers off over his boots. He grabs Trulaw’s shoulder to steady himself and Trulaw leans away to counterbalance the extra weight. “What’s up with Wivenhoe? I was walking across the training ground and he started yelling that he’d give me demerits if I’m not in the gym on time.”

“Maybe he’s turning into Riggs,” Trulaw ventures.

Cord snorts at this, but Saff looks fearful. “That’s not funny, man.”

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

In the Finalizer’s holochamber, the Supreme Leader’s image comes across grainy and interrupted. His presence in the Force – in Kylo’s own mind– is similarly weak and intermittent. This doubt is distracting and he sorely misses the low insidious murmur that speaks with great assurance of what will be, and of Kylo’s own glorious destiny.

“Tell me, Kylo Ren,” Snoke’s flickering form leans forward in its throne, “what is the cause of this newest delay? General Hux tells me our next phase of construction will soon be underway, but I sense evasion in him.”

“The negotiations are more complex than we thought. Hux is handling it.”

“And you – are you being of assistance?”

“I am useless here,” Kylo blurts out. “I am a warrior, not a diplomat. Supreme Leader, please give me a more worthy task. Let me strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. Let me find the girl and bring an end to–”

“Silence!” Snoke raises a hand. “The time for these impetuous outbursts has passed. You have completed your training, I expect you to have patience and to trust in my judgement.”

“I do, I only ask that I be given a task that befits my abilities.”

“You will have action enough, in good time. For now, stay close to the general. Tell me if he wavers in his purpose.”

“If he _wavers_?” Kylo straightens in surprise. Everyone knows Hux for a zealot – loathe as he is to admit it, even Kylo admires his fixity of purpose.

Snoke leans back, dark eyes shining with a malicious enjoyment. “Once a man begins to fail, he seldom recovers.” He extends a long, etiolated finger. “Beware of doubt, Kylo Ren. Even Darth Vader was not immune to that particular poison.”

“It was his son,” Kylo protests. “I have proved that I am free of family ties and sentiment.”

“Arrogance–” says the Supreme Leader meditatively, and then his transmission is cut off.

Kylo waits impatiently as the communicator whirs and bleeps, casting a swirling circle of bluish light as it tries to reestablish the connection. After a minute of this, Kylo cuts the power and turns with a swirl of his cloak, striding from the room and towards Hux’s quarters.

“Hux!” he calls out as he enters. “Tell your men to fix the communicators. My audiences with the Supreme Leader cannot be interrupted!”

“There’s nothing wrong with the communicators, Ren.” Kylo follows the sound of the other man’s voice into the adjoining room and finds Hux sitting in a chair in his living area, a brandy glass in hand. “The Supreme Leader’s security measures are the problem – he will insist on so many re-routings of the signal. If you ask me he’s getting paranoid.”

“He’s not the only one,” Kylo remarks. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on with Storno?”

“There’s nothing to know. It’s all arranged – he’ll be out of our hair by tomorrow.”

“You don’t seem very happy about how things have gone down.”

“That’s Storno’s way. If you want something, he’ll find a way to make you pay for it, alright.” Hux stares grimly at his own reflection in the viewport. “I’m not in the least fooled by that genial act – his little tea party and so on. He pretends he’s forgotten, but he hasn’t – the crafty little shit!”

Kylo frowns down at Hux, wondering these disconnected remarks. “You think he’s trying to swindle you?”

“No, that’s not what I said!” Hux pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out slowly. He stares out at the stars and seems to gather his thoughts. After a long pause he continues, in a quieter, more pensive voice: “You know that I’ve never flattered myself that I’m a particularly moral man. Beyond our broadest ideology... principles are a luxury we can ill afford at this time. So are loyalties.”

“Such as?” Kylo experiences a stomach-dropping moment when he thinks Hux means him, _them_ – that Hux might be trying to back out of their alliance, with all its complexity. But Hux is not thinking of Kylo: he’s back in the past, thinking of a cramped, chilly dormitory and six other sullen-faced boys. “You mean your academy friends?”

Hux makes a face at the word ‘friends’. “Don’t misunderstand – it’s… it’s not sentiment. It’s more like a contract, albeit an unspoken one. We needed each other once. There are certain confidences, that if they had been betrayed – we’d all have gone down. Been finished before we’d even started.”

“You mean that teacher you murdered?” Kylo smirks when he sees Hux swallow and turn pale. “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about that? It’s nothing. We’ve both eliminated people who were in our way.”

Hux rubs his hand across his mouth and swallows. “I never thought of it as murder. It was…”

“Retribution?”

“It was _necessity_. The man was trash; a disgrace to the memory of the Empire and an impediment to what we were trying to build.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Kylo says, shrugging. “It’s not like it matters now.”

Hux pushes a hand through his hair, unfixing it. “I’ve done my best for them – you see that don’t you?”

“Even Knight?”

“Especially Knight.” Hux throws back the last of his drink, then pours out another. He yanks out a drawer in his small personal desk and rifles through it until he comes up with a rectangular box that opens with a deft tap. He pulls out a thin cigarra and puts it to his lips.

Kylo sighs. “You’re going to be like that, are you?”

“Shut up – you think you’re so great, with your clean-living and ascetic ways? You’ll always be the spoiled Senator’s son, nothing you do now can absolve you of all the luxuries you squandered. You’ve never known want–”

“And what, you’ve _earned_ all the brandy and cigarras after your suffering, is that it? Because you had to go to a meeting and an administrator was rude to you?”

“Short sighted as always, Ren.” Hux squints down the barrel of his cigarra as he lights it.

“I know what your problem is. You feel guilty about abandoning one of your own.” This earns Kylo a truly expressive scowl. “Berkal is a symbol to you of the army’s failure; of the human cost. And deep down you know it’s what could have happened to you.”

“What are you drivelling about? Berkal’s not even dead. He lives a totally comfortable life – cosy little desk job, the best medical treatment we have to offer. He got off lightly. It’s about time he made himself useful.”

Kylo rolls his eyes and walks to the other side of the room. He unlatches his cape and hangs it up on the hook next to Hux’s greatcoat. “Don’t you want to know what the Supreme Leader said?” Kylo looks back over his shoulder as he pulls off his gloves.

“Anything of significance, or just vague mystical pronouncements?”

“Nothing new. We’re to continue sourcing the funding and raw materials for the new weapon.”

“Yes, because you’ve been so _helpful_ ,” Hux says with a sneer. “Did he say anything about me?”

Hux’s tone enrages Kylo so much that he almost decides to answer that question truthfully: _he distrusts you; he thinks you’re a liability, a has-been_. Kylo could hurt Hux like that, if he wanted to – he could speak those few words and send Hux tumbling headlong into panic and paranoia. It might even bring Hux closer to Kylo if he was really afraid. Then again, it might push him further away – he might think Kylo is his enemy too; that he’s in league with the Supreme Leader, plotting Hux’s demise.

“No, nothing specific.” Kylo lays his gloves by on the top of the cabinet. He watches as Hux takes another gulp of brandy and grimaces.

“‘Nothing specific’, what does that mean?”

Kylo ignores the question. “You shouldn’t sit up drinking all night. We have to go back to FOC-19 in the morning.”

“Are you my nursemaid now – is _that_ the special job Snoke’s given you?”

“No, I’m just sick of dealing with you when you’re hungover – you act like a rancor with a sore head.”

“Oh, as opposed to my normal sunny disposition?”

Kylo smiles at this, against his will. “I’m going to bed.”

“Dare I hope, in your own rooms?”

“No.” Kylo turns and heads off through the bedroom to the refresher. He strips and showers, then climbs into Hux’s bed.

***~*~***

**17 ABY**

With the speeders set on hover, the class slowly guide their refurbished vehicles into place; standing them in a row at the bottom end of the running track. The track is a cheerless sight: the lanes are trodden down dry earth and coat the cadets’ boots in a thick layer of red grit. The track is bounded on three sides by a high wall made of slabs of duracrete, a futile attempt to shelter the area from the savage climate. One of the slabs has fallen outwards and lies crumbling on the ground like a rotten tooth, admitting ceaseless gusts of wind and swirls of dust through the gap. Runners must take a deep breath and close their eyes when passing this section of the track, or risk being suffocated and blinded. In the centre of the track is a pile of rocks; those that were removed from the area to make it smooth. They form an ugly miniature mountain, though they do at least provide added protection from the wind.

The class begins to grow restless, breaking their ranks to wander over to others’ speeders and inspect and criticise.

“So we never did decide who’s piloting this thing,” Storno says, inspecting the handlebars and turning the throttle.

“You’re the expert, allegedly.”

“Oh yeah?” Storno glances up. “I didn’t take you for a guy who could sit back and be hands-off about anything.”

“I’m just being practical,” Hux says. “You’re the one with more skill in this area.”

Storno scratches his cheek, considering Hux. “That’s big of you to admit.”

Hux gives him a chilly smile and Storno turns his attention elsewhere, calling out to the next team over: “Hey Trulaw, you regretting not taking me up on my offer of private lessons?”

Trulaw throws one leg over the seat and sides into place, testing the resistance of the altitude pedals and revving the engine until it strains against the hover-brake and makes Yungkai let out a yelp of dismay at the machine’s ill-treatment. Glancing over, Hux can’t help but admire the long lines of Trulaw’s body and his slim waist, the way he looks natural in the saddle – desire and envy twist in his stomach alongside the nervousness.

“Who said I don’t know how to ride?” Trulaw looks at Storno with a defiant eyebrow raised. “I’m the only one of you losers who’s ever lived on land.”

Storno laughs, folding his arms over his chest. “Oh yeah, we going to have a real race, just you and me?”

A figure in a dark uniform strides into view through the gym doors. Captain Wivenhoe marches to the assembly and steps up on one of the discarded stones so as to make himself more visible to the crowd. “Cadets,” he calls out, “cut your engines. Line up side by side with your vehicles.”

When the class has done as instructed, Wivenhoe nods with satisfaction. “Those who have designated themselves pilots, raise your hands.”

Hands go up down the line. Wivenhoe gives a tight-lipped smile as he looks them over. “Very well. Take off your helmet and hand it to your partner. It is your partner who will be entering the race.”

A murmur goes up through the crowd; gasps and muttered remarks. Yungkai puts his hand up, ignoring the helmet Trulaw is proffering him over the saddle of the bike.

Wivenhoe raises his chin to observe him. “Cadet Yungkai, do you find this instruction confusing?”

“No, sir, but I can’t pilot. I have an inner ear problem.”

Wivenhoe taps his datapad. “I see nothing about this in your profile. You will proceed as instructed.”

“But sir–”

“Yungkai, you will either follow my instructions or you will report to the Commandant’s office for demerits. What will it be?”

Yungkai lowers his hand sheepishly, going very pale. He struggles to fit the helmet into place and his hands shake as he attempts to do up the chin strap.

“Now,” Wivenhoe announces. “I want each team to move one bike to the left.”

Even more outrage emanates from the crowd. “But sir!” someone yells.

“You think this is unfair?” Wivenhoe retorts, his voice sounding strained. “I have news for you – this is how things work in real life. A company of soldiers is only as strong as its weakest member. If and when you go into battle, you will be at the mercy of others: those who have built your equipment and maintained it, those who have planned the attack, those who will pilot the crafts that convey and extract you. You may think you are brilliant and exceptional – and perhaps you are – but the military is no place for show-boating. Today you will trust not to your own brilliance, but to the skills of your peers.” Wivenhoe looks at them all, sweeping his gaze along the line of sullen faces as if daring one of them to speak up. “Now move to your assigned vehicle.”

Hux breathes out slowly in relief as he straddles Trulaw and Yungkai’s bike.

“You ever ridden before?” Storno asks, rocking the handles experimentally.

“There were hover-scoots on a II-Class I lived on. Similar principle, much slower, of course.”

“Alright. The hand controls are acceleration and steering, the foot controls are altitude. You have to lean forward to counter wind resistance. Little nudges if you go off course – over-correcting’s the best way to slam yourself into a wall.”

Hux looks over at Yungkai, who has managed to clamber into the seat of the vehicle, but is sitting awkwardly, Trulaw grasping hold of the back of his jacket as if he might fall off.

“What’s wrong with him?” Hux asks Trulaw.

“He’s afraid of heights.”

“You said you wouldn’t tell him!” Yungkai gives Trulaw a solid punch on the arm, then almost slides sideways off the bike. “Oh frakk, I don’t want to die like this!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Yungkai,” Hux tells him sternly. “You’re not going to die. These things fly close to the ground. Just don’t accelerate too much and you’ll be fine.”

“What’s wrong with your girlfriend, Hux?” comes a jeering voice. Hux looks over to see Treadaway straddling his and Storno’s speeder. He has two black eyes and a triangular support plaster over the bridge of his nose – Cord got him good. “This shitty bike going to hold together for at least one lap?”

Storno laughs. “Hey man, you got an upgrade. This thing’s deluxe. Look at the craftsmanship on that welding,” he slaps a section of the body that he himself worked on.

“The terrain sensor won’t sync with my HUD on this piece of shit!” Hux hears Yungkai complaining loudly.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have grabbed the last working sensor then, huh?” says the person the next bike over – Fadoh, Hux thinks, though the oversized helmet makes it hard to tell.

“Attention, cadets.” Wivenhoe announces, waiting for the hubbub to subside. “The course for today’s race will test not just speed, but also control. You will journey down the left side of the track, along the back wall, out through the gap and around the flat-topped rock formation approximately three kilometers distant, back around to re-enter through the gap and come to a stop just beyond the finish line indicated by the pair of flags in the right corner. The first place team will receive two hundred of an available two hundred points. The second place will receive one-ninety and so on. The passing grade for the assignment is one-twenty.”

More groans of protest go up at this, but Wivenhoe ignores them. “Very well gentlemen, on your marks.”

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

Kylo is somewhere between sleep and waking when he feels the mattress dip, a warm body reeking of tabac and spirit fumes rolling up against him. Hux curls around him, kissing the back of his neck and down the length of his shoulder.

“You never told me you went to see Knight,” a kiss on the back of Kylo’s shoulder turns into a press of teeth. “Were you jealous?”

“Why would I be?” Kylo grumbles drowsily. “He wasn’t your lover.”

“No, but everyone says you look alike.”

“We don’t, though. Not apart from colouring.”

“Freckles,” Hux kisses three different spots in succession where Kylo suspects his back is flecked with dark moles. “Is that what these are? Or beauty marks? Do you like them, or do they make you self-conscious? Did they used to tease you about them when you were young, like the way they used to tease me about my hair?”

“Who teased you about your hair?” Kylo asks, rolling over – feeling strangely aggrieved on Hux’s behalf. His hair is beautiful, striking – it’s the first thing Kylo noticed about him: the bold shock of colour like an affront to the carefully-cultivated First Order aesthetic of greys and blacks. He smooths his hand over the side of Hux’s head. The pomade has darkened the bright red strands, made them smooth and frictionless to the touch.

“Horrid boys,” Hux answers, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh,” Kylo keeps stroking the gleaming strands. “Well they shouldn’t have.”

Hux laughs. “You look so cross about it. Are you going to look them up, hmm? Twenty years later and you show up on their doorsteps to defend my honour?”

“No, don’t be stupid.”

Hux’s eyes glitter in the low light. “Well you did it with Knight. Had to go and have a look at him for yourself. What did you want to find out?”

“Nothing. I had to stop on ‘19 to resupply. He was there – it was just coincidence.”

“Coincidence my arse. It’s entirely _like_ you, you know – brooding, overdramatic. Like you’re some holodrama hero and he’s your love-rival.”

“You like the idea that I’m jealous.”

“Ha, do I indeed?”

“Yes, it makes you feel important.” Kylo reaches down and rubs his thumb around Hux’s nipple. “It excites you.”

“You’re the one who likes to be dominated and ravished.” Hux slides his fingers into the hair at the base of Kylo’s neck.

“Yeah, but who knows what _you_ would like if you’d only allow yourself?”

“Oh don’t get too creative, Ren,” Hux says this while pressing dry kisses to Kylo’s neck, tugging his hair lightly. Kylo closes his eyes and leans in to the attention – sometimes Hux wants to touch and kiss him while Kylo is passive; usually when he’s a little tipsy like this. The rest of their sex life involves Hux ordering Kylo about in a long-suffering way, as if he doesn’t actually enjoy their trysts. Only when Hux is disinhibited does he actually show any enthusiasm for Kylo’s body, or allow himself to luxuriate in the physical contact.

As Hux’s kisses grow sloppier and more insistent, the hand idly squeezing Kylo’s left pec slides down to grasp his hip, thumb sweeping down and swirling in the fine hair on his upper thigh. Hux pants against his ear, voice thick with excitement: “Would you like it if I fucked the gap between your thighs?” His fingertips sweep along the furrow where Kylo’s legs meet as he lies on his right side. “Hmm? Like you’re still a virgin and can’t take it anywhere else?”

Kylo feels a surge of excitement at the tone of Hux’s voice. His cock twitches, filling out enough to brush against the soft curve of Hux’s stomach and causing Hux to smirk triumphantly against his lips. “What’s in that for me?” Kylo demands, turning his face away.

Hux raises himself on one elbow to look down at Kylo, lips parted and a superior look on his face. “The knowledge that you’re a good boy and that you’re pleasing me.” Lips against his ear again and a low, mocking tone along with a gust of warm breath that makes Kylo shiver: “Maybe if you’re _very_ good I’ll give you my hand afterwards and tell you what a little slut you’ve become as I watch you spurt all over yourself.”

Kylo’s mouth goes wet and he feels his eyes unfocus with stupid lust. He hates it when Hux uses this tone on him – hates how eagerly he responds to these obscene nonsense words. He reaches for Hux, wanting to stroke the soft skin of his stomach and trail his fingers up the underside of his shaft, find out how hard he is. Hux grasps his wrist. “Now now, don’t be too eager. You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” Hux rubs his lips against the corner of Kylo’s mouth. “Bashful. Untouched. You’re just going to lie back and let me fuck your silky thighs.”

Kylo rolls onto his back, throat bobbing. He tenses and relaxes his thighs, struggling not to reach down and squeeze himself. Hux is kneeling, moistening his lips as he stares down at Kylo. He is using his hand on himself, rougher than he usually does and frowning as he looks down. Kylo follows his gaze – Hux is still mostly soft and his pumping at the base doesn’t seem to be helping matters along.

“Here, let me–” Kylo reaches out to touch Hux’s hip.

Hux turns away, covering himself with his hand. “Stop, don’t look!”

“Just lie back and I’ll suck it—”

“No, get off — just leave me alone!” Hux shoves Kylo’s shoulder angrily and slides away, sitting up on the edge of the mattress. He pushes his clawed fingers back through his hair, leaving the product-heavy locks deeply furrowed. Kylo watches him in silence, seeing the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders, the bumps of his spine.

“Hux, it doesn’t matter—” the moment Kylo begins to speak, Hux rises up off the bed and walks from the room without looking at him.

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

The wind whips against Hux’s jacket as he tries to lean down closer to the body of the bike while retaining his grip on the controls. Shifting his weight causes him to bear down on the pedals and jerk further into the air, but he manages to correct without veering off course. The reddish soil that coats the planet’s surface is raining so thickly on his visor at this speed that visibility is approaching zero. He has to trust to the flickering display of his helmet.

Two pilots are ahead of him: Treadaway and Kallic, the latter finally showing what he is good at after all the years languishing in mediocrity. Treadaway’s mastery of the bike is far from perfect, but the speed modifications give him the leisure to make a wider turn.

The terror lying heavy on Hux’s limbs has begun to lift, countered by the soaring, reckless feel of adrenaline. He angles his body to turn with his bike as he moves to cut between Treadaway and the sheer cliff face of the mesa. The repulsorlift engine struggles as he reaches the upper limit of its capabilities. Hux swerves as Treadaway pulls ahead into his path, cursing as he narrowly avoids an outcropping of rock and over-corrects, zagging out of the turn and momentarily disorientated. When the dizziness recedes, Hux pulls himself back into a right turn, feeling his calf muscles trembling against the stirrups.

Treadaway slams on another burst of speed and passes Kallic on the outside, so close as to knock their steering vanes together. Kallic seems to lose his nerve, wobbling and dropping in altitude as Treadaway rockets ahead.

Suddenly there comes a high whining sound and the undercarriage of Treadaway’s bike explodes, sending the wreckage and its pilot hurtling down onto the stone teeth that ring the bottom of the mesa. Kallic slows and Hux jerks to the left to zip past him. He punches the button to connect his helmet mic to the short-range comm frequency.

“Kallic, I’m going to get help. You go down and perform first aid. Fadoh is just behind us, you can flag him down, over.” Before Kallic can object to this plan, Hux accelerates, jerking up and away around the mesa’s far side.

Hux is alone on the home stretch, the other cadets either lagging far behind or caught up in the gory drama that is Treadaway’s fall. Hux pulls up high as he speeds over the barren terrain and lets out a shout of pent up exhilaration inside his helmet, unable to close his lips around the grim rictus that has formed upon his face. He feels like he is dying and soaring, all at once.     

He slows as he approaches the gap in the duracrete walls and swerves to a stop at the finish marker. The spectating cadets have climbed up on the heap of rocks, shoving each other for the use of the few battered pairs of quadnocs that the storage closet had to offer.

“What happened?” Trulaw asks, hopping down to ground level. “Looked like an explosion.”

“Treadaway went down,” Hux replies. “Where’s Wivenhoe?”

“Getting the med droid and flatbed speeder. What happened with Treadaway – did he lose control?”

Hux shakes his head. “Equipment malfunction, it looked like.”

Hux can see Trulaw doing the calculation in his head – who was where in the lineup. “Wasn’t he on _your_ bike?”

“Yes. He must have pushed the booster too hard.”

“Or it was faulty!” Yungkai interjects, limping over. There is a graze on his chin and the wreckage of his borrowed speeder lies crumpled just twenty metres down the track.

“Why would it be faulty?” Hux pulls off his helmet, pushing his hair back into place with his fingers.

“There’s a reason they discontinued those on the 614s.”

“There was nothing wrong with the bike,” says Hux coldly. “It was user error.”

“Lucky thing _you_ weren’t on that bike,” Trulaw remarks. He looks over at the excited gathering on top of the hill of stones. “Or Storno.”

***~*~***

**34 ABY**

Kylo covers his face with his hands and sighs deeply, just leaving them there and listening to his own muffled breathing. After a few minutes he gets out of bed and goes to the living area, where Hux is sitting on a chair, turned in profile against the backdrop of stars; a thin rope of smoke drifts upwards from the fresh cigarra between his fingers where they lie on the armrest.

“Well,” Hux says, glancing over at Kylo, who is still naked, and then back to the viewport. It’s difficult to tell if he is looking out at the stars or at his own pale reflection. “That was disappointing.”

Kylo crosses the room and kneels down between Hux’s splayed legs, then turns his body so he can sit on the floor with his back to Hux. The tiles are cold against his buttocks and the shock of the contact sends a stab of tingling pain through his oversensitized balls, but he leans into the discomfort. Soon he can feel Hux’s body heat radiating through the thin layer of silky material. He draws a portion of the robe aside to reveal the pale skin of Hux’s inner thigh and lays his head there. Sighing softly when Hux’s hand comes to rest on the top of his head.

Kylo likes this better than sex, he decides: the warmth of Hux’s long, lean thigh against his cheek; the prickling of the red hair on his calf as Kylo rubs his thumb up and down; the weight of Hux’s hand on his head and the slight tug as he moves his fingers. Hux breathes out shakily and grey smoke trickles into Kylo’s vision, curling against the glass of the viewport.

“Fuck,” Hux says, expressively. “What are we doing?”

Kylo considers what he means by this. Possibly: _what are we going to do next?_ Or: _why are we fooling around like this when things are already so precarious?_ Or even: _why are you kneeling for me when I’m a failure?_

Kylo does not know the answer to any of these questions. He gazes through the lower portion of the viewport and takes in the dappled, anaemic surface of FOC-19. He wonders what would happen to all the administrators down there if the First Order should fail. Would they be prosecuted for their complicity with the regime? Or would they simply dissolve into the New Republic, finding other desk jobs on other planets and moons? It makes him angry all of a sudden – that there are those who have risked and sacrificed so comparatively little. He and Hux have given everything – their entire selves. All they have left of their humanity is this imperfect union: Hux’s fingertips on his scalp.

“Let’s get married,” Kylo says – the thought coming to him as an urgent revelation, an unfolding of truth.

“What,” Hux replies, sounding dazed, “to each other?”

Kylo frowns but does not lift his head. “Yes, of course to each other!”

Hux sputters, laughs. “You actually mean that, don’t you? Are you really so pathetic and suggestible?”

“Why not?” Kylo demands, looking up.

“What possible reason is there to do it? What would it achieve?”

“There would be a record.”

“A record of what?”

“Of us, of what we were to one another. Even if it’s just on one planet and no-one ever finds it.”

“Of all the sentimental drivel–”

“No, Hux,” Kylo sits up and meets his gaze, “ _listen_.” Hux raises an eyebrow, a daring sort of expression. Kylo licks his lips and continues: “this is what I think about: history will remember us. It will remember us as monsters or victors, depending on our fate. No-one will ever know about our private lives but us. No-one will know or care about what we thought, or who we loved. We won’t be remembered as people at all. And I want to do something as a person, just this one thing.”

“And then what?” Hux sounds exasperated. “What will we do afterwards? What will have been achieved?”

“Nothing,” Kylo says, stroking his bare knee. “Nothing, just this.”

***~*~***

**17 ABY**

Hux tugs down his uniform jacket and bends down to rub at a scuff mark on his boot. His stomach is sour and knotted, and when he straightens back to attention he winces at a sudden cramp. He takes a slow, deep breath and tries to smooth his features; to be the sort of blank, soldierly automaton that the commandant prefers.

He can hear the sound of voices inside Prell’s office. One is low; the other drawn sharp by tension. Hux cannot make out most of the conversation but occasional exclamations like _unacceptable!_ and _don’t you dare!_ are discernible through the door.

Hux holds himself straighter, raising his chin and staring ahead as he hears footsteps. The automatic door mechanisms are broken and they open outwards on their hinges with a metallic shriek when pushed. Hux hears footsteps in the corridor but does not turn to look at the person who has exited the room.

“Ah, Cadet Hux,” comes a familiar voice, sounding agitated.

“Captain Wivenhoe, sir,” Hux replies, still staring forward at the opposite wall, which is stained low down with machine grease.

“A terrible business. Still, can’t say I’ll regret leaving this hell-hole. I’ve never met such a sorry bunch. A pack of filthy, starving, ungrateful little beasts.”

Hux stares ahead and says nothing to this.

“I expected better from you, Hux.” Wivenhoe continues, a certain manic tinge to his voice. “I thought of all of them you might have a little wit and class – to rise above this pathetic place. I thought you’d be your father’s child – now _there_ was a man with ambition; a man who knew how to play the game. You’re just as ignorant and unimaginative as all the rest.”

“Cadet Hux!” comes Prell’s voice, echoing from within. Hux executes a quarter turn and quick-marches to the office, catching only a glimpse of Wivenhoe’s pale, sweating face as he passes. Gone is the paternalistic mildness – he is sneering in open disgust.

Hux fumbles to pull the doors closed behind himself. The office is long, empty and dimly lit, containing nothing but a desk, a cobbled-together computer station, and the raised stand of the projector for a communicator unit. Hux walks forward until his toes are to the line drawn in faded red paint. He salutes.

“Hux,” Prell says, glancing up. “What have you got to say for yourself?” Prell is a stout man in his fifties with olive skin that has gone sallow for lack of sunlight and two tufts of remaining hair, one above each ear.

“About what, sir?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. About the crash.”

“It was an accident, sir. Some kind of equipment malfunction. Treadaway lost control of the speeder.”

“Yes, we’re well aware of that. Who fitted the power cell booster?”

“I don’t remember, sir. My partner and I built the speeder together.”

“Did Wivenhoe check your work?”

“I believe so.”

The commandant breathes out slowly, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I don’t mind telling you that the man who called himself ‘Captain’ Wivenhoe was not quite who he represented himself to be.”

“Yes sir,” Hux answers blandly.

Prell’s eyebrows twitch. “You knew that already?”

“Yes sir. He said he went to Raithal. The records for Raithal are intact and I checked them.”

“You... checked them?”

“Yes, sir. They’re in the reference library.”

“So if you knew this man was an imposter, why did you not come forward with this information?”

“I considered that it was not my place, sir.”

Prell taps his lips with a shaking forefinger. “And you make a habit, do you, of researching the credentials of your teachers?”

“Yes, sir.” Hux licks his dry lips. “I do.”

Prell sits back in his chair with a grunt, watching Hux for a long moment with an evaluating stare. “You’re very like your father, do you know that? Commandant Brendol Hux was also a poisonous little shit.”

“ _General_ Brendol Hux,” Hux corrects. “Or didn’t the news reach you out here, sir?”

Prell merely chuckles at his insolence. “This boy Treadaway – friend of yours, was he?”

“Not a friend of mine, sir.”

“You haven’t asked me if he’s still alive.”

“Is he?”

“Oh yes – pity about the arm, though. Totally crushed. He’ll have to have a cybernetic.”

“That’s very unfortunate, sir.”

“Yes, you seem quite devastated.” Prell leans forward and hits a button on his desk. “Amberley, send in the other one.”

The intercom crackles and the doors creak open again. Hux turns his head and sees Storno step across the threshold. He closes the doors without turning his back – a theatrical flourish – and favours the commandant with a smile. “You wanted me, sir?”

“Cadet Storno, please come in. Join your... partner, here.”

Storno walks forward with a casual, swinging gait. He takes his place next to Hux, one toe conspicuously over the line.

“Storno, Cadet Hux says that he does not remember who fitted the booster to your speeder. Do you have anything to say about that?”

“Yes, sir,” Storno says. Hux feels his stomach sink, his face turning cold. “It was me.”

“What?” Hux hisses.

“I did it,” Storno repeats. “I guess I didn’t do it very well, but then again, I just haven’t had the benefit of a first-class education. Lucky we didn’t have to ride our own bikes in the race, wasn’t it Hux? Someone could have gotten seriously hurt.”

“Someone did.” Prell corrects. “Because of your carelessness a boy was maimed. He received what we call a _life-altering injury_.”

“I do feel bad about that, sir,” Storno continues blithely. “I should have had the bike checked. I guess my excitement and competitiveness just got the better of me. That’s my biggest fault, sir – I get carried away.”

Prell is looking at Storno with an expression that suggests he is buying none of this. “And do you think Cadet Treadaway, or his family, would accept this explanation. That you got _carried away_?”

“It’s unacceptable, I agree. But it was an accident – it’s not like I did it on purpose.”

“So you take full responsibility, Storno?”

“Yes, _sir_.”

“And what do you think, Hux?” Prell demands.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Well you’re on track for a leadership position, are you not? So tell me, what should I do about Storno? What would be a punishment befitting someone who so recklessly endangered another cadet’s life?”

Hux remains silent, jaw flexing and throat too tight to speak.

“Well?” Prell leans forward, planting his knuckles on the table top.

“Perhaps he should be expelled from the academy.” Hux breathes out slowly, steadying the wobble in his voice. “Since he doesn’t fit in here.”

“Storno, what do you think – is expulsion a fair punishment?”

Storno’s mouth makes an ‘o’ of shock. “Oh no, please sir, I don’t think I could bear the shame!”

Prell’s chair makes a loud scraping sound as he pushes it back and stands. “Take off your belt, Hux.”

“Sir?” Hux frowns in confusion.

“I gave you an order. Take off your belt.” Hux fumbles with the metal clasp and pulls the thick webbing free from his belt loops. “Have you ever administered a beating, Hux?”

Hux shakes his head. “No.”

“No. Not quite your style, is it?” Prell’s expression is grim. “Well, this is how we did things in my day. A student who failed or stepped out of line, they had to be made an example of. The officers who taught us knew full well what was going on, of course, and they turned a blind eye to it. Sometimes what you ignore is as pointed as what you correct. We had to learn to govern ourselves.” Prell crosses to the window and gazes through the slats of the shutters, hands clasped behind his back. “Very well, you may begin.”

Hux looks at the belt in his hands. “You want me to _beat_ Storno?”

“I want you to discipline him as you see fit.”

“But I don’t know what to do, sir.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. I understand from your reports that you are a fiercely quick learner. I will give you a couple of pointers though: don’t hit him with the buckle unless you want to put another of your peers in medbay. Oh, and we used to give them a choice: ten over the trousers or five without.”

Hux looks over at Storno who shrugs. He does not appear particularly awkward and certainly not frightened, his brow is creased in a look of wry amusement. Hux glances back over to Prell, who continues to stand with his back to them, fingertips of one hand tapping on the windowsill.

When Hux hesitates for another few seconds, Prell prompts: “I don’t have all cycle. Get on with it before I decide to follow your advice, Hux, and have both of you expelled.”

Hux looks back at Storno, who shrugs, holding his hands up.

“Bend over,” Hux tells him. “Brace on the table.”

Storno grins and complies.

“Do you want ten or five?”

“The fewer the merrier.” Storno unbuckles his trousers and pushes them down, revealing his plump, round buttocks. Hux folds the belt and holds the two metal ends in on hand, then draws back his arm. He brings down the folded belt on Storno’s ass and hears a muted slapping sound. Storno’s body jerks in response but he doesn’t yell out.

“Unacceptable,” Prell says, still turned away. “Start again. Remember it’s supposed to be a punishment.”

Hux draws back his arm and puts more effort into the stroke, following through and putting weight behind it. Storno grunts and then laughs – a high, derisive sound as if he’s mocking Hux’s performance, even though Hux knows the blow had to hurt – a rectangular welt is rising on Storno’s skin.

“Pathetic,” says Prell. “Again.”

Hux lets out the length of the belt, feeling his own chest rising and falling, face hot with humiliation. He walks backwards a few steps and takes a running approach, raising his arm and bringing it down with all his strength. The thick webbing material snaps in the air and lands across the top of Storno’s thighs with a resounding _thwack_.

Storno yells, a loud, animalistic sound of pain but also exhilaration. His back bows inwards and his knuckles flex on the table, closing around one of the scattered data keys that litter the surface.

“That’s one,” says Prell calmly. “Continue.”


	4. Epilogue

**34 ABY**

At the sound of chimes, Berkal rises from his terminal and presses the switch that sends it into low power. He picks up his caf cup and walks to the door, which bleeps and opens with a slow, squeaky rumble. As he nears the threshold he feels the sensation of a barrier – that he is parting a delicate and complex veil, and that it is a dangerous thing to do. Part of his mind calls out for him to stop; to pause and go through the series of complex actions that will allow him to find the safe way through; the way that will open up a true passage – the one that is meant to be there, and not a rough and heedless tear through the mysterious and unseen fabric of the universe.

His body does not falter. It no longer feels the panic or dread that the brain wants it to. It is a beast of burden:  heavy, sluggish and obedient to simple commands. As he steps through the doorway, Berkal can still see the thought as if at a distance – a piece of signage he is able to ignore. Every day hundreds of people walk in and out of these doors and the universe doesn’t unravel, he tells himself.

Walking to the break room, he passes a few colleagues still seated at their own stations in the open-plan sector of the office. They are younger than he is – for them, this is a stepping-stone to a higher rank or a more interesting deployment. Berkal nods in greeting to those who look up at him and keeps walking.

Once inside, Berkal leaves his dirty caf cup in the designated bay and pauses to look through the window, watching the other grade fives as they rise, stretching, and begin to mill about. They congregate in the aisles or at crossroads between the monitor banks, pulling together in little clumps like bubbles in froth. Many are animated as they make plans for the afternoon: Benduday is a half-shift in the office, and always has a holiday sort of feel.

“Hey Berkal,” comes a feminine voice from somewhere behind him. Berkal stiffens to attention and turns to face the speaker.

“Oh,” he says, “sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

The person who spoke to him is small in stature, with thick, dark hair cut into a neat bob. She has light tan skin and her eyes are large and lively, with two moles sitting above her left brow. She is smiling at him, one of her full cheeks dimpling. She looks very young to him – though all his coworkers do, these days. He does not know her name, but the familiarity with which she addresses him makes Berkal think he should.

“I’m Temani,” she says, apparently sensing his struggle to place her. “We talked at that training day last week about the archive upgrades.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” Berkal says, although he doesn’t.

“Some people are planning to go to the leisureplex. Do you want to come?”

“No thank-you. I’m not really into holoflicks, I prefer novels.”

“Yeah, I guess those ‘galactic glory’ reels they play at the start are getting a little repetitive,” Temani taps the counter, looking thoughtful. “Well, how about a drink instead?”

“I’m not very sociable. I find it hard to concentrate in crowded places.”

“I meant just you and me. The tapcaf by Canteen 5 is usually quiet. People don’t bother going that far from the leisureplex.”

“Oh,” Berkal pauses, thinking that he has no objections to continuing a conversation with this woman, but he’s also not sure what she wants from him. He hopes she doesn’t think he has some kind of seniority or influence.

She shrugs one shoulder. “It’s ok if you have plans, or you don’t want to. I got some good news today, so I feel like celebrating.”

“With me?”

She laughs. “Don’t look so surprised. I think you’re interesting.”

“I’m really not.”

“You might surprise yourself.”

Berkal thinks about this, wondering if it is true. His reactions to most things are muted and delayed: surprise, if it comes at all, might catch up with him hours or days from now. “Alright,” he says. “Shall we go?”

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

There are four portals between here and his destination. Berkal shakes out his arms, which are already tensing, and lingers unobtrusively, waiting for the other boys to leave first.

He takes a deep breath as he approaches the first barrier. He puts his toes to the line, stares down to look for imperfections: is one foot a little further forward than the other? He steps back and steps forward again; then again. He is still not satisfied but time is running out.

His fingers twitch and he begins to feel his way through the complex layers. This time he is lucky and there are no interruptions; no lapses in concentration. He slows his breath, holds it, and lifts his right foot, then his left — there is the sensation of cold, of panic, but then he has passed through. He shakes with relief, exhaling slowly, and then lowers his head to continue his journey down the corridor. As Berkal turns a corner, picking up speed, he almost runs straight into another cadet. The boy turns and holds up his hands, grinning. “Woah there! Hey, it’s Berkal, right?”

“Est Berkal,” he qualifies, even though it is unnecessary.

“Looker Storno. Good to meet you.” The cadet grins and shows that he has a gold tooth. It is so incongruous that Berkal experiences a bizarre urge to reach out and poke it with his fingertip. “You heading to comp?” Storno asks, falling into step beside him.

“Yes.”

“Me too.”

“We’re going to be late,” Berkal says, glancing up at the chrono on the wall.

“Shit happens,” Storno shrugs, hands shoved in his pockets. Berkal has never before met anyone in real life who _saunters,_ but this is unmistakably what Storno is doing. “Hey, that captain likes you though.”

“Yeah, Folohn’s ok.”

“You’re good at comp. What was that thing you said the other day about the poem — the contrast, or whatever it’s called...”

“Conceit.”

“Conceit, right. I wasn’t following that at all.”

“Oh... it’s an extended metaphor that links two things that are totally unalike. You know, like the lover and the ship in the poem. The beloved’s eyes are like the viewports because they’re clear but impenetrable, right?”

Storno chuckles. “Are women into that? I don’t know that I’d be all that flattered if someone compared my face to a star destroyer.”

Berkal glances at Storno, whose face is not at all symmetrical or angular. “Yeah, it’s pretty far-fetched, I guess. But that’s just the style in the High Imperial period.”

“You like that stuff — the poetry?”

“It’s ok. I prefer novels.”

“Oh yeah — what kind of stuff? Like epic battles and shoot-outs?”

“No, I prefer fantasy. You know, like magic and legend stuff. And love stories.” Berkal has no idea why he has told Storno this last part; he is aware of how ridiculous it sounds. He attempts to cover: “just… things with happy endings.”

“Yeah, I can see why, in a place like this. Hey, you’re friends with Hux, right?”

“I mean I guess. We share a dorm.”

“You like him?”

“He’s ok. He helps us.”

“Helps you how?”

Berkal looks over at Storno and finds something sharp in his gaze. “Tells us what to do.”

“That doesn’t sound like helping.”

“It is — it does. After my brother passed—” Berkal bites his tongue.

“What?”

“He… he helped me deal with it.”

“Oh yeah, how’d he do that?”

Berkal looks at the other boy again. There’s a mismatch somewhere that makes him uneasy — Storno’s tone is friendly, casual, but his gaze is pointed. “I can’t say. It’s private.”

Storno blinks and looks away. Letting out a soft laugh and patting Berkal’s shoulder. “Fair enough.”

Berkal begins to slow subconsciously as they reach the next turn. They will have to exit B corridor to C corridor and there’s a particularly bad spot there — the flooring is uneven and the tiles don’t line up straight. They turn the corner and the next doorway comes into sight. Berkal stops in his tracks, overwhelmed suddenly. Storno pauses and looks back at him, then turns his head towards the exit.

“So what’s up with the doorways?” he asks — not ‘what’s up with you?’ or ‘what the fuck is your problem?’, which is what Berkal usually gets when someone notices his strange behaviour. Storno has asked about the _doorways_ — as if he thinks there might really be something wrong with them.

Berkal shifts from one foot to the other. “They’re uh… nothing. I’m just weird about them.”

Storno scratches his cheek, looking from the doorway back to Berkal. “Yeah but why? What is it that freaks you out?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

“I have to do things… go through in a certain way, I guess. Or else something really bad will happen.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something so terrible I can’t even imagine what it is.”

Storno cocks his head, looking thoughtful. “Why doorways?”

“I have… I have this idea that the universe isn’t just one layer, right? We’re on this surface,” Berkal makes a flattening gesture with his hands, “and we think it’s the only one. But the universe is like… like the pages of a book.” He presses his palms together and then opens them, miming. “Have you ever seen one of those?”

“A book? Yeah — some cultures still use ‘em.”

“I’ve only seen pictures, but that’s the idea, anyway.”

“What’s on the other pages?”

“Other timelines, I think. I mean, worlds where things turned out differently. Like if something… something _really bad_ happens here, it doesn’t happen in the other places. Unless we mess up somehow. Tear through the page. Then everything would be spoiled.”

Storno raises one eyebrow. “And you’re the only person who knows this?”

Berkal shrugs with one shoulder. “I don’t know — maybe other people do, too. But that’s the thing, now that I know, I can’t _unknow_. I’m always aware and I have to be careful, every time.”

Storno gives a long, low whistle. “That’s a lot of responsibility, man.”

Suddenly a hot, choking feeling wells up in Berkal’s chest, and for a terrible second he thinks he might vomit. Tears prick his eyes as he desperately swallows the feeling down. When he tries to speak his voice wavers noticeably. “It really is.”

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

“They think you’re stuck-up,” Temani confides, swirling her second drink.

“Why?” Berkal is surprised.

“I guess because you don’t really socialize. You look over people’s shoulders when they talk to you, like you’re searching for someone more interesting.”

“Do I? I don’t mean to. I’m just… I find it hard to focus on people, sometimes. Looking and listening at the same time – sometimes it’s too much to concentrate on.”

Temani takes a gulp of her drink and nods as if she understands. “Can I…” she looks at him askance. “Can I ask you something? I mean, I don’t want you to think it’s rude or too personal.”

“I don’t mind. Not unless it’s classified.”

“Oh, nothing like that…” she blinks twice, eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s a tic she has, this double blink. Two moles and two blinks – regular, comforting.

“Go ahead.”

“Well… you’ve been in the department a long time, right? Like, _years_. Most people move on.”

“Oh, you mean what’s wrong with me that I’m stuck at Grade Five?”

“I didn’t say that!” she flushes angrily. “I mean... I thought maybe you have some specific ties here on ‘19.”

“No, nothing like that. It’s hard to explain. I was in the army, you see.”

“You were?”

“Yes, I was a second lieutenant.”

“Were you wounded, then?”

“Kind of. It was a psych thing.”

“You mean…” Temani’s eyes widen. She presses her lips together and looks down, apparently regretting having asked. “Oh, sorry.”

“I was at the PS-One Unit. Have you heard of it?”

“Yeah, of course – I mean everyone’s heard rumours.”

“It’s not as bad as people say. Mostly I just stayed in my room; they tried out lots of medication.”

“Were you–” Temani stops herself. “No, sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“I don’t mind talking about it.”

She gives him a sharp, incredulous look. He wonders if it disgusts her that he lays out his weaknesses like this. Berkal has always found openness a sort of weapon with these people: as a species, the administrators are reserved and quietly ambitious; yet they are full of neuroses and closely-nursed secrets. The idea that someone would openly admit a flaw scandalizes them to the point of near-admiration.

She narrows her eyes at him as if she thinks the offer is a trap. “How did you… why’d you end up there?”

“Oh – I was acting very strangely. Obsessive behaviour. I had to check everything over and over, and keep records of everything. I thought if I didn’t…” he trails off.

“What? What did you think would happen?”

Berkal looks at her round, youthful face – he understands the hopelessness of explaining. His delusions – which still don’t feel exactly untrue to him, though that’s the word he’s been taught to use – were intricate and exquisitely layered. Like a fantasy novel composed by some nebbish author who took the time to craft entire systems of geography, philosophy, and languages for the private world of the fiction. “Just… terrible things,” he says. “Disaster.”

“Did you think it was like… normal at the time?” Temani looks faintly ashamed of her own curiosity and also a little fearful. Perhaps she wonders if her own brain is capable of sudden treachery.

“No, I knew it wasn’t normal. It was terrifying and frustrating. Like my mind was stuck in a loop.”

“And you’re all better now?”

Berkal laughs and when her face falls he says: “sure.”

She sips her drink again and reaches for less dangerous conversation. “So how did you end up here?”

“Here on ‘19 or here, the First Order?”

“Both, I guess. You have family?”

“Yeah. A brother, and my mother. They’re both…” he trails off again.

“I have a brother, too. He’s in the navy. I wanted to join but my nav scores weren’t high enough. We didn’t get along very well when we were kids, but now I kind of miss him. Are you close to yours?”

“We’re twins.”

“Oh shit, really? Where’s he stationed?”

“A long way from here. I can’t really talk about it.”

“Oh, sorry. That must be hard for you – though. I mean a _twin_. I can’t imagine what it’s like, that kind of closeness.”

Berkal swallows a mouthful of his drink — it’s sweet and blue and has some ridiculous name. _Scarif Sling_. “I think sometimes… maybe I would be better at socializing, if I hadn’t been a twin. You get used to there always being someone there – someone you don’t have to try with, or explain yourself to. It made me closed-off, in a way. Or just lazy maybe – it seems like a lot of effort to make new connections. And they seem… fragile.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Temani is gazing at him with a preoccupied look. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“Yeah but… Temani blushes and looked down at her own drink. “I was just wondering, what’s with the beard?”

“Oh,” Berkal brings a hand up and touches his own chin. “I suppose it is unusual. I just… I’ve had it a long time. I guess they decided to let me keep it.”

“Can I touch it? Is that weird?”

“Go ahead.”

Temani reaches out cautiously and almost pulls her hand back at the last second, then pushes forward and touches her fingertips to Berkal’s cheek. She makes a squeaking noise of surprise. “Oh, it’s so rough! I thought it would be soft, y’know, like head-hair.” She rubs her fingertips against the grain. “It’s prickly!”

Berkal looks at her face with astonishment, taking in her broad, delighted smile. He can feel the puffs of air from her laugher against his cheek. “Would you like to have sex with me?” he asks. “Sorry if that’s not how I should ask. I don’t know what the slang is now.”

She laughs again, strokes the hair of his beard in the other direction to lie flat. “I would like to. Where are you billeted? I’m in two-two-five.”

“One-oh-three. I think it’s closer.”

Temani smiles, presses her lips together. “Your place, then?”

“Yes.”

They finish their drinks and get up, the backs of their hands brushing together as they edge past the table and out of their booth. Berkal lowers his gaze, avoiding the eyes of the other patrons. He feels as if they are doing something secret, or elicit – though it is neither, really. Temani doesn’t seem to share his self-consciousness; she is smiling and walking with a bounce in her step. Things are different for her generation: men and women educated together, subjected to the same detailed and relentlessly bland health classes. Berkal’s younger colleagues all seem to view sex as an activity much like grav ball or null hockey – invigorating and perfectly collegiate, in its proper place.

When they arrive at his building, Temani smiles and fusses with the fringe of her bowl cut. Berkal stands back and lets her enter the dormitory first, some forgotten relic of romance he must have absorbed from some old datacard while sitting scrunched into a corner of his bunk on NEC-52.

He thinks, for some reason, of Saff – he both loving and beloved. Berkal thinks of their time on the _Instigator_ before deployment, and the way he imagined he could see Saff’s energy around him like an aura of orange and pinks. One of Berkal’s then-delusions (it must have been a delusion) was that if he stayed within Saff’s orbit, nothing could harm him. Saff seemed such a luminous presence that he was surely immortal.

Berkal remembers lying on the top bunk of a room – its dimensions not satisfactorily mapped – which was lit with low green light. Saff was below him with a woman; another second lieutenant. The bunk creaked like trees in a high wind, laughter mixing seamlessly with groans. Berkal found it soothing – Saff’s radiance seemed to increase, to envelop him.

He is so lost in his own thoughts that Temani’s kiss surprises him. She stands on her toes and pulls him down with a hand around the back of his neck. No sooner do their mouths connect than she laughs again and squirms away.

“It’s so rough!” she protests, sounding delighted. She lets her knees go weak, holding on to his shoulders. Berkal puts his hands on her buttocks to pull her close again. They kiss once more – slower, with more concentration this time, then they begin to undress. He unfastens her tunic and pulls the undershirt up. Her plain black bra unclasps at the front and he smooths his hands over her breasts.

It has been a long time since Berkal has felt someone else’s bare skin – it feels overwhelmingly hot beneath his palms, and there is a certain electricity – the feeling of something live and vital. “Wait,” she gasps, pulling back and grasping his wrist. “What if your roommate comes in?”

“I don’t have a roommate.”

Temani laughs, incredulous. “What?”

“I’m the only person that lives here.”

Temani looks about herself and something about the apartment seems to spook her. She fastens up her bra again and pulls down her undershirt, twisting from his grasp and peering into the doorways. The rooms are dim – the light outside fading – and the only sound that can be heard is the white noise of the air circulator.

“What’s wrong?” Berkal asks.

“It’s so… empty. Do you really _live_ here?”

“Yes. I don’t like clutter. It’s easier for me to think when things are simple.”

Berkal looks at the room and tries to see it through a stranger’s eyes. The living area has a chair placed below one of the recessed lights in the ceiling. The chair is blocky – originally taken, Berkal thinks, from some impersonal waiting area. It has wide arms that he can rest his datapad on. In front of the chair there is a square area of unfaded carpet where there used to be a rug. The difference sometimes irks Berkal, but less so than the rug (which had a jarring zig-zag pattern).  

“Maybe you would like the kitchen better,” Berkal ventures.

“You have a kitchen?” Temani follows him into the adjoining room, which is narrow and rectangular.  There is a flap embedded into the wall which can be raised up into a table. Two smaller, lower-down tabs pull out into seats. Berkal sets up the table and gestures for her to sit.

“This must be one of the original units,” Temani says. “Before the cafeterias were built. Weird.”

Berkal looks around himself, scratching his cheek absently. “Would you like something to eat? I have some dehydrated portions.”

Temani shakes her head.

“Something to drink? I definitely have caf.”

Temani folds her hands on her lap primly. “Okay.”

Berkal sets up the caf maker and turns back to lean against the counter. He likes this room: the fixtures are a soft grey and the afternoon light coming through the single window at the room’s far end casts clean, dynamic bars of shadow. The caf-maker bubbles and clicks off and Berkal pulls out the serving module and pours out two cups. He brings them to the table and sits down opposite Temani, folding has hands together on the table top, mirroring her unconsciously.

“Are you ok?” he asks, noting the rigidity of her posture, her cast down eyes. “The apartment makes you uncomfortable?”

“No it’s just…” she rolls a shoulder, glances up. “I mean, who are you, really?”

“What do you mean?” Berkal blinks. “My first name is Est, if that’s what you’re wondering. What’s yours?”

“Chiesa.” Temani turns the cup round and round on the table. “That’s not… it’s – you’re different from the others in the office. I mean I _knew_ that – but you have these big rooms. You don’t have to share your quarters. You must be something more than you seem.”

“Like what?”

“I just… if you’re some kind of undercover operative or something, or like, internal affairs, I don’t want to be involved. I can’t risk it. I need to keep my head down – you get that, right?”

“I’m not undercover anything. I’m a grade five administrator, just like you. I’m older, I’ve been here longer, but that’s the whole story – honestly.”

“What do you want, I mean, from me?” Temani lifts her cup and sips.

“I want to take your clothes off and kiss your body all over, and to feel the heat of your bare skin.” He holds he gaze and she seems to will him to elaborate, so he does: “I’ve also thought about how it would feel to lie with my head between your thighs and lick you until you come against my mouth.”

Temani coughs and puts her hand to her lips, lowering the cup with a clatter. “Wow that’s uh… forthright.”

Berkal turns his cup so that it sits snugly in the little depression of the saucer, then looks back up at Temani. “Is that what you want, too? In the bar, I thought it might be.”

Temani looks at him the way Berkal looks at the spaces he inhabits: a slow sweep of her eyes, and earnest searching for anything that is astray. She is deciding if she is comfortable with him, he thinks, if she trusts him now that he has revealed how he lives; his eerie separateness.

She pushes her cup away and slides from the seat. “Will you show me your bedroom, then?”

She waits, patiently, as he folds and slots everything away and she takes his hand as he leads her to his bedroom. There is nothing special there: a bed, a strip light above it for reading, a small shelf that folds down to hold any trinkets the dweller might need close by: a chrono perhaps, or a datapad. Temani sits down on the edge of the bed and stretches her arms out to either side, sweeping them in a semicircle that ends behind her. “Wow, it’s so big.”

“I think the apartment was meant for a married couple.”

Temani reaches over to his folded-down shelf and picks up the small disc that rests there, turning it in her hands. “What’s this? An ashtray?”

Berkal sits down next to her and takes the object, fitting his fingers into the grooves that activate the device. It projects a grid of green light up onto the ceiling. “It’s a grid projector. For mapping stars manually.”

“Do they still do that?”

“No, it’s an antique I think.”

“What do you use it for?”

Berkal lies back on the mattress, resting the disc on his chest. “Sometimes I turn it on when I can’t sleep. I look at each square and memorize everything in it: each crack or bump in the surface of the ceiling. Then I move on to the next square. It’s like counting sheep.”

Temani lies down next to him. “Huh. You know when I was little and I couldn’t sleep, I’d concentrate on my big toe. My right big toe.”

“Why?”

“That was the starting point. Big toe, second toe, third toe, so on; then my foot, up my leg, then the other leg… until I’d gone all the way up my body. Usually I’d be asleep before I reached my mouth.”   

Berkal feels excitement pooling in his stomach. He switches off the grid projector and reaches over Temani to deposit it back on the shelf. Then he raises himself on his hands and knees, straddling her as she laughs at the pitching of the mattress, catching his hips.

“What if I did it the other way around?”

“Did what?”

“I would start with your mouth and work my way down.” Berkal leans in and rubs his lips against hers. He feels the puff of air of her laughter before he hears it.

“Wow, you’re pretty smooth.”

Berkal smiles and kissed her again; when he leans his weight on her she clutches at his back eagerly, squeezing his hips with her knees. He kisses her jaw and grunts in frustration when the collar of her tunic gets in his way, so they have to break apart briefly to undress. Once naked, Temani lies back on the bed and tangles her fingers in the hair curling against the nape of his neck, writhing and laughing at the scraping of his beard as he kisses between her breasts.

When he has kissed his way down her stomach, Berkal slides onto his knees on the floor, pushing her thighs open with the slight pressure of his hands on her knees. He parts her outer labia with two fingers and leans in to draw his tongue up the length of her vulva. He strokes her clitoris with the tip of his tongue, the lightest touch possible as he traces a tiny circle. Temani arches her back and tightens her grip on the back of his head as Berkal opens his mouth wider and works his tongue against her more firmly. She makes a sound: soft, regular groans that are like someone labouring to wake from a deep and troubling dream. Berkal pushes into her with one fingertip, circling in the hot, wet interior, and her noises become more urgent. He feels her let go of his head and then struggle to rise up on her elbows.

“Good?” he asks, sitting back on his heels.  

“Yeah, really good – I’m, uh, good to go if you want to put your dick in. Sorry, that was crass – I mean, I’d like that.” She sits up and rubs his cheeks with her thumbs, kisses him almost apologetically, her face flushed.

“Oh, well I’m not…” he sees her glance down and see that he is still soft.

“Oh shit, you probably need some foreplay too, huh? You want to come up here and lie back, let me—“

“That probably won’t make any difference. Sorry it’s – I take some strong medications.”

Temani frowns – not an expression of annoyance or disappointment, just mild confusion. “So you don’t get an erection? Not ever?”

“Rarely.”

“Then… what do you get out of this?”

“I still like touch and intimacy. I can still experience sexual pleasure, too, it’s just not focussed on my penis.”

“What gives you pleasure, then?”

“Certain kinds of repetitive touches — the backs of my knees, my inner thighs. That… takes a long time though, to build up to a… I guess I would describe it as a euphoria? Sometimes if I want something more direct and intense I use a vibrator.”

“Oh,” Temani looks uncertain. “Do you want to do that now? I mean I can help if you show me what to do.”

Berkal experiences a rush of sudden affection; a feeling that seems to threaten to spill from him, rising from his chest to his throat. He lays his head on her thigh, strokes the neat triangle of her pubic hair. “You don’t have to. I enjoy what we were just doing. I want to keep doing it.”

“I kind of feel weird about it though, if you’re not getting anything out of it.” Temani eases herself back onto the pillow, rearranging her limbs with some awkwardness.

“I am, I promise.” Berkal fits his mouth back into place, hears her gasp and feels her tilt her hips up for more of the pressure. Her pussy is blood-warm against his tongue and the taste faintly saline. There is something very animal about it; the place that cannot be scrubbed and scented, as other body parts are.

She makes a soft and regular sound at his attentions: an indrawn breath and an exhalation in two deep groans. Then the cycle repeats — this is comforting, too.

*~*~*

**17 ABY**

Berkal steps out onto the roof and is instantly buffeted by the gritty wind.  

“You got my note?” says a dim figure sitting on the air circulator unit.

“You shouldn’t be up here. This is Hux’s place.”

“I don’t see his name on it.” Storno jumps down off the unit and comes towards Berkal. He has a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and he’s wearing a flight suit under his regulation jacket.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah. I’m about to hop on a shuttle out of here. You want to come?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet. Somewhere more exciting than this.”

Berkal shakes his head. “No I’m… I should stay.”

“Sure?” Storno raises an eyebrow.

Berkal nods.

“Figured you’d say that. I wanted to give you something before I go.” Storno digs in his pocket and holds out something cupped in two hands. Berkal stares down at it: a dark, disc-shaped object.

“Take it.”

Berkal reaches out cautiously. “What is it?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Berkal manipulates the disc and finds some embedded buttons on the sides. A green light jumps up out of the top, projecting a grid pattern strongly onto the night sky.

“What’s it for?” Berkal asks, gazing upwards with his mouth open.

“For making manual star charts.”

“Do people still do that?”

“Nah, it’s a reproduction — more of a toy. I like it though, it’s a hobby of mine. I find it relaxing.” Storno comes closer, putting his hand under Berkal’s to adjust the way he’s holding the projector. “It’s a nice idea, right? Dividing space up like that, to make it manageable?”

Berkal finds he is breathing quickly. “Yes. Yes, I like it.”

“Listen man, this place… it’s not right for you. You know that?”

“What?” Berkal turns his head, looks at Storno’s profile. “You mean this planet, the academy?”

“Yeah. It’s a conformist place. They’re not interested in people who are different or special. They want to squash you all down into like…” Storno makes a squaring-off gesture with his hands, “like one of those protein cubes. You know?”

Berkal nods. “It’s— I’m trying—”  

The door swings open and they both look around. Hux comes striding onto the rooftop with Knight in tow. Berkal fumbles the grid projector into his pocket almost guiltily, as if he thinks Hux is one of the captains who will confiscate his contraband.

“What’s this?” Hux demands, addressing Storno. “I thought I told you not to come up here.”

“Yeah well, I was waiting for you. Come to say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Hux folds his arms over his chest. “So did they decide to expel you after all?”

Storno laughs. “Prell doesn’t have the clearance to expel me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean — you’re here on some secret mission, is that the glamorous new backstory you’ve invented for yourself?”

“I’m here because it’s the most backwater, out-of-the-way place they thought they could put me.”

“And they’ve found somewhere more befitting your status, is that it?”

“Nobody’s putting me anywhere, Hux.” Storno takes something from his pocket: it’s the data key he took from Prell’s desk. “You know what this is? Clearance codes for the automatic atmo security — I’m getting out of here tonight.”

“Why tell me? I could go to the commandant right now and stop you.”

“I don’t think you will, though — not unless you fancy round two of ‘disciplining’ me.” Storno takes a step closer, peering up at Hux from under his shaggy curls. “Wait, were you into that?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Hux sneers.

Storno grins, shoulders his kit bag. “Hey, if you see Treadaway tell him I might have a job for him, I’ll be in contact.” Storno clicks his tongue and makes finger blasters. “See you around, Berkal. Take it easy, Knight. And Hux... I’d say ‘take it easy’ but I don’t think that’s in your DNA. Hey it’s been real, especially that part where you tried to murder me. Hard luck, man — better luck next time.”

“You’re delusional!” Hux retorts.

Storno bites his bottom lip and shakes his head, taking another step closer. Hux stands his ground and the two boys stare at each other with a look of naked challenge. “I’ll tell you what I know though,” Storno says in a warm, low murmur, eyes glinting. “Some cogger wisdom for you, from a lifetime of watching petty power struggles play themselves out.”

“What’s that?”

“A guy like you is getting his comeuppance, Hux — I know that for a fact. But I guess I want to see you get a little bigger first, so it’s more of a show.” Storno winks, reaches up and pinches Hux’s cheek. He laughs when the other boy shoves him.

“Get the hell away from me!”   

“Oh I’m going, don’t you worry.” Storno shifts his bag higher on his shoulder and barges past him, making his way to the fire exit.

After Storno’s departure the three remaining cadets turn to look at each other. There is a strange feeling in the air, something like guilt and defeat.

“You think he’ll really make it out of here?” Knight asks, staring out at the sky above the landing pad in the hazy distance.

“Of course not,” Hux retorts. “He won’t even get off the ground.”

Later that night they are all summoned from their beds by security alarms and stumble outside in bleary-eyed confusion. As the cadets assemble into their rows, a blue streak makes its way across the night sky, arcing high above them and out of sight.

*~*~*

**34 ABY**

Berkal returns to work just before the start of second shift on Primeday. As he walks down the well-trodden path of the central aisle between the banks of workstations, he glances to the left and right until he sees Temani, who is adjusting her headset and settling into a seat. He thinks he sees her catch his eyes for a brief fraction of a second before she turns to her screen — a flicker, a microexpression he can’t quite parse, passes over her face — perhaps it is shy fondness, perhaps it is embarrassment. She stares ahead at the loading screen of her monitor with unnecessary determination. Is she worried that he will diverge from his path and speak to her before the others — single her out as one of the weirdos?

Berkal puts his head down and continues to his office, which is beyond the break room, towards the back of the building. Berkal walks through the doorway and turns towards the desk, then stops abruptly, arrested by an unfamiliar sight. There is a man standing on his desk.

The man is chubby and short in stature, with tangled curls and a long, curving mustache. He’s wearing an odd combination of clothing items, some of which seem to be industrial in design while others look hand-crafted. He is standing with his hands on his hips and his head cocked at an angle as he looks up through the skylight above Berkal’s workstation, which currently shows a square of undifferentiated grey.

“Nice view,” the man remarks before he hops off the desk, the floor shaking upon his impact. He walks forward and puts his hand on Berkal’s shoulder. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Berkal looks into the round, strong-featured face and finds something familiar about it, though he can’t place it in his memory. It is the man’s eyes he finds most striking — they are a dark brown and strangely magnetic. There is a definite contrast there that troubles Berkal, something that doesn’t fit: the face is jovial, somehow boyish, but the eyes are hard — shrewd and evaluating. The man steps back and his gaze sweeps across the objects in the room as if he is appraising their value or use. He looks at Berkal the same way: casual, proprietary; like one who has bought a property at auction and come to see what’s worth salvaging.   

“Is it coming back to you yet?” the man asks, picking up a stylus off Berkal’s desk and twirling it between his fingers.

Berkal hasn’t been very many places in his life, so he hazards a guess: “Did we go to school together?”

The man grins, a gold tooth glinting under the fluorescent strip lights. “Yeah we did — briefly. Name’s Storno — that ring any bells?”

“You were the new kid in our final year. From Map-Corps.”

“There you go! I knew I could jog your memory.”

“Didn’t you get expelled or something?”

“Went A.W.O.L., actually. And that’s where I’ve been ever since — here and there, anywhere but where I’m supposed to be.” Storno lets out an indulgent chuckle at his own remark.

“What are you doing here?”

“Came to get something — had to twist the brasses’ arms, but in the end they gave it up.” Storno takes a step back and straightens his arm, affecting a salute. “Second Lieutenant Berkal, you have been seconded to the _Boundless_ under the command of Captain Looker Storno.”

Berkal frowns and looks around himself, half expecting to see a group of people poised to laugh. “Is this a joke?”

“It is not.”

“Uh, I don’t have any flight or navigation experience. My combat record is… not so good either. I mean mostly I just process invoices for building materials.”

“Ah, but I _believe_ in you Berkal, that’s all that matters.”

“You believe in me to do what?”

“To see things differently.” Storno gives Berkal’s shoulder a hearty pat. “Come on, let’s go find my wife. She’s having tea with this guy Kylo Ren and just between us it’s a friendship I’d like to discourage. Have you met him?”

Berkal recalls the name from the daily bulletins. “Kylo Ren _the Jedi Killer_?”

“Oh is that what he does? I was starting to wonder.” Storno rubs his chin thoughtfully, his stubble making a scratchy sound against his fingertips. “Alright, just one last thing.” Storno leans over Berkal’s console, taps rapidly at the keypad and connects up some wiring to a clunky old-model datacopier. He ejects the card, then tosses it to Berkal, who fumbles the catch, reactions dulled. “Hold onto that for me until we get out of here, will you?” He gives a rakish wink, tossing the copier into Berkal’s desk drawer and hip-checking it closed.

Berkal looks down at the disk in his hands and considers the treason it represents. He thinks of the rows of identical desks outside and the hard, blank look on Temani’s face as she turned to her console screen. He unzips a pocket in his tunic and squares it away.

“See,” Storno says. “I knew I was right about you.”

Berkal feels curious gazes on him as he follows Storno down the central aisle; the herd alarmed and scenting something out of the ordinary. They exit through the main doors and make their way through the grid of streets to a shuttle port. Berkal notes that it is not the main one for visitors, but a scruffy, out-of-the-way back lot marked ‘FREIGHT OVERFLOW’. They head towards an Opportunity-class freighter that has seen better days and bears more than a few blaster scorch marks.

A squad of stormtroopers stands circling the ship and at their centre is an officer with red hair peeking out from under his cap and a black overcoat hooked over his shoulders. As the wind agitates the fabric, Berkal notes the rank stripes of a general. Then it occurs to him why the man looks familiar.

“There you are,” Hux says, addressing Storno. “I was about to send a squadron after you.”

Storno spreads his arms wide. “All these years and you still don’t trust me, Hux.” He makes a clucking sound of regret. “I wonder why that is.”

Hux takes a comm out of his greatcoat and barks something into it that Berkal cannot catch over the wind. The hatch of the freighter opens with a hiss and whine of hydraulics and two figures emerge, walking down the exit ramp side by side. One is a tall masked figure dressed all in black with a cloak that flaps in the breeze. The other, linking the arm of the first, is slightly shorter and more slender, dressed in dark robes and a headdress that shows only an oval of face. The face is not human, but rather that of some reptilian sentient. The alien has large eyes that are as iridescent as an oil spill.

When the pair reach the ground, Hux turns to the red-pauldroned trooper at his right hand and orders “search him”, making an impatient gesture towards Storno.

Storno laughs raucously as the trooper attempts to pat him down, pulling strange weapons and trinkets out of the pockets and folds of his clothing. Hux sniffs as he looks down at the collection, pushing the items around with the toe of his boot. “Well. Do you have the map or not?”

“Vion-Obe has it,” Storno says, motioning towards the alien with a toss of his head, his arms still restrained by the trooper.

“Do I?” The alien replies, disengaging from the masked figure and making its way towards Storno.

Storno shakes the trooper off him and Hux makes a ‘stand down’ gesture. Storno gives the trooper a contemptuous look and smooths down his tunic. “That necklace I gave you,” he says, addressing the alien, “it’s a data key.”

“Oh,” The alien tugs down the dark fabric at its throat and pulls out a thin chain, upon which hangs a blocky plastex key. “Looker, that is very bad of you,” it says sternly, unfastening the chain. “You know my culture considers recorded information taboo.”

“I don’t think the folks back home in the swamp are going to find out about it, honey.” Storno takes the key from the alien and holds it out in his cupped hands. “Well Hux, are we going to be civil about this?”

Hux nods towards the masked figure and the necklace and key go sailing through the air, Hux snatching the item one-handed when it bobs close enough. Berkal feels all the hairs stand up on the back of his neck because now he knows where he recognises the masked figure from — those propaganda reels that show clips of the First Order holding strong against primitive forces. A red crackling beam of light and the caption ‘our secret weapon in the fight against disorder’.

Apparently unimpressed by this show of mystical power, Storno gives Hux a look of contempt. “You know that’s what I’ve always hated about you officer brats the most — a bunch of entitled little animals with no manners.”

“Shut up, Storno,” Hux bends down and fits the key into the slot of a BB-9E droid waiting near his feet. “You should be grateful I’ve upheld my part of the deal and I’m still considering letting you leave here alive.”

Storno lets out an incredulous bark of laughter. “Oh you’re _considering_?”

The droid burbles in binary and sends out a holo-projector beam that resolves into a diagram showing a rectangle of space — a star chart depicting a system Berkal does not recognise.

The figure in black standing near to Hux turns its masked head. “A map?” the voice crackles. Hux glares back at Kylo Ren as he continues: “all this was for a _map_?”

“A star map to one of the last untapped sources of quadanium in the galaxy, Ren. This wasn’t a wild goose chase after some senile Jedi.”

Kylo Ren turns on his heel and walks away, heading back towards an impressively-winged lambda-class shuttle with his heavy cloak rippling faintly in the wind.

“Ren!” Hux calls after him, going red in the face, but the figure does not turn.

“Trouble in paradise?” Storno remarks.

Hux turns with a curl of his lip. “Get out of here, Storno. Don’t let us catch you in Order space again or your marauding days will be at an end.”

Storno walks forward, approaching Hux and looking up at him with a dark, challenging stare. There is a whirr as the nearest trooper lowers his blaster and levels it at Storno’s head.

“Looker,” the alien calls, having already turned towards the ramp of the freighter, “come away!”

“Don’t worry, Hux won’t shoot me. That’s not his style.” Storno’s eyes widen as he stares into Hux’s face. “Besides, you forget, Hux — I’m not some smuggler you can intimidate. According to the records, I’m as Order as you are.”

“You will never be part of the Order — you are the very antithesis of everything we stand for.”

Storno laughs at this, obviously delighted to have gotten Hux so riled. Vion-Obe shakes her head at them. “Looker, come and give me your arm.”

“Hey Berkal,” Storno calls without moving or breaking eye contact. “Help my wife onto the ship.”

Berkal obeys, wavering a little when the weight of the alien’s arm settles across his shoulders. The ascent is awkward — there are no handrails — and so they move slowly.

Berkal is just close enough to catch Storno’s parting words: “Looks like you’re all grown up now, Hux. But you know, the only way from the top is down.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me approximately three millennia to finish this but now it's dooooone! Since our last installment, kylostahp did an [awesome drawing of Vion-Obe](http://kylostahp.tumblr.com/post/160670208767/things-i-like-stornos-weird-mystic-alien-wife)! As always, I can be found as [@kdazrael](http://kdazrael.tumblr.com/) on the tumbles.


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